B 


FLIGHT 
F  THE 
•NCESS 


ROBERT 

LOUIS 

STEVENSON 


f 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 

Mr.   Armistead  Carter 


-7. 


\H 


THE 

FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

AND  OTHER  PIECES 


"Enter  these  encJianted  woods , 

You  who  dare. 
Nothing  harms  beneath  the  leaves 
More  than  waves  a  swimmer  cleave 
Toss  your  heart  up  with  the  lark, 
Foot  at  peace  with  tnmtse  afid  worm. 

Fair  you  fare. 
Only  at  a  dread  of  dark 
Quaver,  and  they  quit  their  form. : 
Thousand  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Have  you  by  tJie  hair. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods, 

You  who  dare.'''' 

GEORGE   MEREDITH 


"Jour?ieys  ettd  in  lovers  meeting. 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know.''"' 

SHAKESPEARB 


ROBERT     LOUIS 
STEVENSON 

THE    FLIGHT    OF   THE 
PRINCESS 

AND    OTHER    PIECES 


PORTLAND    MAINE 

THOMAS   B   MOSHER 

MDCCCCXII 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ix 


Foreword    . 

The  Flight  of  the  Prin- 
cess       ....      3 

Old  Mortality  .        .     39 

An  Old  Scotch  Gardener     61 

"A  Penny  Plain  and  Two- 
pence Coloured"        .    77 


FOREWORD 


FOREWORD 
I 

ORIGINALLY  issued  in  Long- 
man's Magazine,  (April  to 
October,  1SS5),  Prince  Otto  re- 
appeared as  a  single  volume  in 
ample  time  for  the  holiday  book- 
buyer  of  that  year.  No  more 
interesting  study  in  the  evolution 
of  Style  exists  than  a  comparison 
between  the  serial  and  its  immedi- 
ate careful  revision  in  book  form, 
which  must  have  been  done  at 
white  heat.  As  a  specimen  of 
the  discarded  dialogue  read  the 
following  passage  showing  with 
how  much  finer  effect  the  last 
words  of  Seraphina,  as  they  now 
stand,  end  the  romance.  Seldom 
is  judicious  excision  so  instantly 
apparent. 

"  Lie  close,"  she  said,  with  a  deep 
thrill  of  speech.  "  Stir  not  a  finger, 
dear,  or  we  may  both  awake.  I, 
too,  have  dreamed  my  nightmare. 


FOREWORD 

Now,  as  I  sit  here,  I  begin  to  tell 
myself  there  was  a  Prince  in  fairy 
tales,  who  loved  a  thing  of  ice  and 
folly;  and  under  every  trial,  still 
loved  on;  loved  the  ingrate,  the 
traitor,  the  insolent —  and  oh !  still 
loved,  or  so  I  tell  myself;  and 
when  at  last  God  sent  a  soul  into 
his  fro  ward  mistress,  his  great  heart 
leapt  up,  and  he  forgave  her  all," 

We  may  concede  that  from  the 
first  Prince  Otto  was  regarded  as 
exotic,  —  an  alien  growth,  so  to 
speak, — amidst  the  still  lovelier 
natural  flowers  of  the  Stevenson- 
ian  garden. 

As  Mr.  Joseph  Jacobs  tells  us : 
"  In  thinking  over  Stevenson's 
work  one  is  apt  to  overlook  Prifice 
Otto.  It  is  of  so  different  a  gen're^ 
it  has  almost  a  note  of  insincerity. 
Yet  that  very  note  is  cognate  with 
its  subject,  and  in  its  rococo  man- 
ner it  is  a  perfect  bit  of  novelistic 
bric-a-brac^  a  sort  of  romance  in 
Dresden  china.  There  is  one 
chapter,  however,  that  redeems  it. 


FOREWORD 

The  flight  of  the  princess  through 
the  woods  at  night  is  one  of  the 
most  perfect  things  Stevenson 
ever  wrote.  It  is  characteristic 
that  it  should  come  with  the 
plunge  from  courtly  artificialities 
into  the  open  air  and  nature  una- 
dorned. The  character  drawing 
is  as  firm  as  elsewhere.  .  .  .  All 
bite  the  steel  with  clear-cut  lines. 
Yes,  Prince  Otto  is  the  Stevenson- 
ian  crux;  like  not  that  and  you 
are  no  true  Stevensonian." 

Critics  there  were,  and  possibly 
critics  there  are,  unable  or  unwill- 
ing to  admit  the  deep-veined 
humanity  of  the  reconciliation 
scene  between  Seraphina  and  her 
Prince.  For  us  there  is  in  it  that 
touch  of  nature  —  passionate,  sen- 
suous, true  to  love  and  life,  with- 
out which  the  book  had  turned  out 
a  mere  romantic  fiasco.  Nowhere 
else  shall  we  find  the  natural  his- 
tory of  the  human  passion-flower 
so  exquisitely  set  forth  as  in  the 
awakening  of  Seraphina  to  a  love 


FOREWORD 

that  will  not  fade  away.  It  is  as 
perfect  as  that  other  immortal 
scene,  the  meeting  between  Rich- 
ard and  Lucy  in  Meredith's  Idyl 
of  First  Love,  so  soon  to  close  in 
tragic  night.  Here  Stevenson 
became  "the  laureate  of  the  joy 
of  life " :  of  this,  despite  all  self- 
imposed  limitations.  The  Flight 
of  the  Pfincess  is  the  enduring 
exemplar. 


II 


Of  the  three  essays  chosen  from 
Memories  and  Portraits,  (1887), 
each  has  its  own  delightful  excuse 
for  being,  and  they  have  been 
chosen  because  of  an  inner  divin- 
ity which  is,  perhaps,  most  clearly 
seen  in  the  first  of  the  trio.  As 
Professor  Walter  Raleigh  points 
out :  "  An  equal  sense  of  the  real- 
ities of  life  and  death  gives  the 
force  of  a  natural  law  to  the 
pathos  of  Old  Mortality,  that 
essay   in   which    Stevenson    pays 


FOREWORD 

passionate  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  his  early  friend,  who  '  had  gone 
to  ruin  with  a  kingly  abandon,  like 
one  who  condescended;  but  once 
ruined,  with  the  lights  all  out,  he 
fought  as  for  a  kingdom.'  The 
whole  description,  down  to  the 
marvellous  quotation  from  Bunyan 
that  closes  it,  is  one  of  the 
sovereign  passages  of  modem 
literature;  the  pathos  of  it  is  pure 
and  elemental,  like  the  rush  of  a 
cleansing  wind,  or  the  onset  of  the 
legions  commanded  by 

'The  mighty  Mahmud,  Allah-breathing 
Lord, 
That  all   the  misbelieving  and  black 
Horde 
Of    Fears   and   Sorrows  that  infest 
the  Soul 
Scatters  before  him  with  his  whirlwind 
Sword.' " 

When  we  come  to  the  end  of 
this  little  gallery  of  portraits  we 
are  in  position  to  see  with  Raleigh 
that  Stevenson  "  shares  with  Gold- 
smith   and    Montaigne,    his    own 


FOREWORD 

favourite,  the  happy  privilege  of 
making  lovers  among  his  readers." 
And  as  Thackeray  said  of  Gold- 
smith so  we  may  'conclude  of 
"R.  L.  S.":  "To  be  the  most 
beloved  of  English  writers  —  what 
a  title  that  is  for  a  man  !  " 


THE 

FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

AND  OTHER  PIECES 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE 
PRINCESS 

I 

THE  porter,  drawn  by  the 
growing  turmoil,  had  van- 
ished from  the  postern,  and  the 
door  stood  open  on  the  darkness 
of  the  night.  As  Seraphina  fled 
up  the  terraces,  the  cries  and  loud 
footing  of  the  mob  drew  nearer 
the  doomed  palace ;  the  rush  was 
like  the  rush  of  cavalry;  the  sound 
of  shattering  lamps  tingled  above 
the  rest;  and  overtowering  all,  she 
heard  her  own  name  bandied 
among  the  shouters.  A  bugle 
sounded  at  the  door  of  the  guard- 
room ;  one  gun  was  fired ;  and 
then,  with  the  yell  of  hundreds, 
Mittwalden  Palace  was  carried  at 
a  rush. 

Sped  by  these  dire  sounds  and 
voices,  the  Princess  scaled  the 
long  garden,  skimming  like  a  bird 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

the  Starlit  stairw^ays;  crossed  the 
Park,  which  was  in  that  place 
narrow;  and  plunged  upon  the 
farther  side  into  the  rude  shelter 
of  the  forest.  So,  at  a  bound, 
she  left  the  discretion  and  the 
cheerful  lamps  of  palace  even- 
ings; ceased  utterly  to  be  a  sov- 
ereign lady ;  and,  falling  from  the 
whole  height  of  civilisation,  ran 
forth  into  the  woods,  a  ragged 
Cinderella. 

She  went  direct  before  her 
through  an  open  tract  of  the  for- 
est, full  of  brush  and  birches,  and 
where  the  starlight  guided  her; 
and  beyond  that  again,  must 
thread  the  columned  blackness  of 
a  pine  grove  joining  overhead  the 
thatch  of  its  long  branches.  At 
that  hour,  the  place  was  breath- 
less; a  horror  of  night  like  a  pres- 
ence occupied  that  dungeon  of 
the  wood;  and  she  went  groping, 
knocking  against  the  boles  —  her 
ear,  betweenwhiles,  strained  to 
aching  and  yet  unrewarded. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

But  the  slope  of  the  ground  was 
upward,  and  encouraged  her;  and 
presently  she  issued  on  a  rocky 
hill  that  stood  forth  above  the  sea 
of  forest.  All  around  were  other 
hilltops,  big  and  little ;  sable  vales 
of  forest  between;  overhead  the 
open  heaven  and  the  brilliancy  of 
countless  stars;  and  along  the 
western  sky  the  dim  forms  of 
mountains.  The  glory  of  the 
great  night  laid  hold  upon  her; 
her  eyes  shone  with  stars;  she 
dipped  her  sight  into  the  coolness 
and  brightness  of  the  sky,  as  she 
might  have  dipped  her  wrist  into 
a  spring;  and  her  heart,  at  that 
ethereal  shock,  began  to  move 
more  soberly.  The  sun  that  sails 
overhead,  ploughing  into  gold  the 
fields  of  daylight  azure  and  utter- 
ing the  signal  to  man's  myriads, 
has  no  word  apart  for  man  the 
individual;  and  the  moon,  like  a 
violin,  only  praises  and  laments 
our  private  destiny.  The  stars 
alone,  cheerful  whisperers,  confer 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

quietly  with  each  of  us  like  friends ; 
they  give  ear  to  our  sorrows  smil- 
ingly, like  wise  old  men,  rich  in 
tolerance;  and  by  their  double 
scale,  so  small  to  the  eye,  so  vast 
to  the  imagination,  they  keep  be- 
fore the  mind  the  double  charac- 
ter of  man's  nature  and  fate. 

There  sate  the  Princess,  beauti- 
fully looking  upon  beauty,  in  coun- 
cil with  these  glad  advisers.  Bright 
like  pictures,  clear  like  a  voice  in 
the  porches  of  her  ear,  memory 
re-enacted  the  tumult  of  the  even- 
ing: The  Countess  and  the  danc- 
ing fan,  the  big  Baron  on  his  knees, 
the  blood  on  the  polished  floor, 
the  knocking,  the  swing  of  the 
litter  down  the  avenue  of  lamps, 
the  messenger,  the  cries  of  the 
charging  mob;  and  yet  all  were 
far  away  and  phantasmal,  and  she 
was  still  healingly  conscious  of 
the  peace  and  glory  of  the  night. 
She  looked  towards  Mittwalden ; 
and  above  the  hilltop,  which  al- 
ready hid  it  from  her  view,  a  throb- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

lung  redness  hinted  of  fire.  Better 
so :  better  so,  that  she  should  fall 
with  tragic  greatness,  lit  by  a  blaz- 
ing palace !  She  felt  not  a  trace 
of  pity  for  Gondremark  or  of  con- 
cern for  Griinewald:  that  period 
of  her  life  was  closed  for  ever,  a 
wrench  of  wounded  vanity  alone 
surviving.  She  had  but  one  clear 
idea:  to  flee;  —  and  another,  ob- 
scure and  half-rejected,  although 
still  obeyed:  to  flee  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Felsenburg.  She  had 
a  duty  to  perform,  she  must  free 
Otto  —  so  her  mind  said,  very 
coldly;  but  her  heart  embraced 
the  notion  of  that  duty  even  with 
ardour,  and  her  hands  began  to 
yearn  for  the  grasp  of  kindness. 

She  rose,  with  a  start  of  recol- 
lection, and  plunged  down  the 
slope  into  the  covert.  The  woods 
received  and  closed  upon  her. 
Once  more,  she  wandered  and 
hasted  in  a  blot,  uncheered,  unpi- 
loted.  Here  and  there,  indeed, 
through  rents  in  the  wood-roof,  a 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

glimmer  attracted  her;  here  and 
there,  a  tree  stood  out  among  its 
neighbours  by  some  force  of  out- 
line; here  and  there,  a  brushing 
among  the  leaves,  a  notable  black- 
ness, a  dim  shine,  relieved,  only  to 
exaggerate,  the  solid  oppression 
of  the  night  and  silence.  And 
betweenwhiles,  the  unfeatured 
darkness  would  redouble  and  the 
whole  ear  of  night  appear  to  be 
gloating  on  her  steps.  Now  she 
would  stand  still,  and  the  silence 
would  grow  and  grow,  till  it 
weighed  upon  her  breathing;  and 
then  she  would  address  herself 
again  to  run,  stumbling,  falling, 
and  still  hurrying  the  more.  And 
presently  the  whole  wood  rocked 
and  began  to  run  along  with  hex. 
The  noise  of  her  own  mad  passage 
through  the  silence  spread  and 
echoed,  and  filled  the  night  with 
terror.  Panic  hunted  her:  Panic 
from  the  trees  reached  forth  with 
clutching  branches;  the  darkness 
was  lit  up  and  peopled  with  strange 

8 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE   PRINCESS 

forms  and  faces.  She  strangled 
and  fled  before  her  fears.  And 
yet  in  the  last  fortress,  reason, 
blown  upon  by  these  gusts  of  ter- 
ror, still  shone  with  a  troubled 
light.  She  knew,  yet  could  not 
act  upon  her  knowledge;  she 
knew  that  she  must  stop,  and  yet 
she  still  ran. 

She  was  already  near  madness, 
when  she  broke  suddenly  into  a 
narrow  clearing.  At  the  same 
time  the  din  grew  louder,  and  she 
became  conscious  of  vague  forms 
and  fields  of  whiteness.  And  with 
that  the  earth  gave  way;  she  fell 
and  found  her  feet  again  with  an 
incredible  shock  to  her  senses,  and 
her  mind  was  swallowed  up. 

When  she  came  again  to  herself, 
she  was  standing  to  the  mid-leg  in 
an  icy  eddy  of  a  brook,  and  lean- 
ing with  one  hand  on  the  rock 
from  which  it  poured.  The  spray 
had  wet  her  hair.  She  saw  the 
white  cascade,  the  stars  wavering 
in  the  shaken  pool,  foam  flitting, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

and  high  overhead  the  tall  pines 
on  either  hand  serenely  drinking 
starshine ;  and  in  the  sudden  quiet 
of  her  spirit,  she  heard  with  joy 
the  firm  plunge  of  the  cataract  in 
the  pool.  She  scrambled  forth 
dripping.  In  the  face  of  her 
proved  weakness,  to  adventure 
again  upon  the  horror  of  blackness 
in  the  groves  were  a  suicide  of 
life  or  reason.  But  here,  in  the 
alley  of  the  brook,  with  the  kind 
stars  above  her,  and  the  moon 
presently  swimming  into  sight,  she 
could  await  the  coming  of  day 
without  alarm. 

This  lane  of  pine  trees  ran  very 
rapidly  down  hill  and  wound 
among  the  woods;  but  it  was  a 
wider  thoroughfare  than  the  brook 
needed,  and  here  and  there  were 
little  dimpling  lawns  and  coves  of 
the  forest,  where  the  starshine 
slumbered.  Such  a  lawn  she 
paced,  taking  patience  bravely; 
and  now  she  looked  up  the  hill 
and  saw  the  brook  coming  down 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

to  her  in  a  series  of  cascades;  and 
now  approached  the  margin,  where 
it  welled  among  the  rushes  silent- 
ly; and  now  gazed  at  the  great 
company  of  heaven  with  an  en- 
during wonder.  The  early  even- 
ing had  fallen  chill,  but  the  night 
was  now  temperate;  out  of  the 
recesses  of  the  wood  there 'came 
mild  airs  as  from  a  deep  and 
peaceful  breathing;  and  the  dew 
was  heavy  on  the  grass  and  the 
tight-shut  daisies.  This  was  the 
girl's  first  night  under  the  naked 
heaven;  and  now  that  her  fears 
were  overpast,  she  was  touched  to 
the  soul  by  its  serene  amenity  and 
peace.  Kindly  the  host  of  heaven 
blinked  down  upon  that  wander- 
ing Princess;  and  the  honest 
brook  had  no  words  but  to  en- 
courage her. 

At  last  she  began  to  be  aware 
of  a  wonderful  revolution,  com- 
pared to  which  the  fire  of  Mitt- 
walden  Palace  was  but  the  crack 
and    flash    of    a   percussion    cap. 


TKB  FUGHT  OF  THE  PKINCKSS 

The  countenance  with  which  the 
pines  regarded  her  began  insensi- 
blj  to  change ;  the  grass  too,  short 
as  it  was,  and  the  whole  winding 
staircase  of  the  bro<^*s  course, 
b^an  to  wear  a  solemn  freshness 
of  appearance.  And  this  slow 
transggnuation  reached  hex  heart, 
and^plsgred  upon  it,  and  trans- 
pierced it  with  a  serious  thrilL 
She  looked  all  about;  the  whole 
&ce  of  nature  looked  back,  brim- 
ful of  meaning,  finger  on  hp,  leak- 
ing its  glad  secret.  She  looked 
up.  Hearen  was  almost  emptied 
of  stars.  Such  as  still  Mngered 
shone  with  a  changed  and  waning 
brightness,  and  began  to  faint  in 
their  stations.  And  the  colour  of 
the  sky  itself  was  the  most  won- 
derful; for  the  rich  blue  of  the 
ni^t  had  now  melted  and  soft- 
ened and  bri^tened;  and  there 
had  succeeded  in  its  place  a  hue 
that  has  no  name,  and  that  is 
nev^r  seen  but  as  the  herald  of 
morning.     "O!"   she   cried,   joy 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

catching  at  her  voice,  "O!  it  is 
the  dawn  ! " 

In  a  breath  she  passed  over  the 
brook,  and  looped  up  her  skirts 
and  fairly  ran  in  the  dim  alleys. 
As  the  ran,  her  ears  were  aware 
of  many  pipings,  more  beautiful 
than  music;  in  the  small  dish- 
shaped  houses  in  the  fork  of  giant 
arms,  where  they  had  lain  all 
night,  lover  by  lover,  warmly 
pressed,  the  bright-eyed,  big-heart- 
ed singers  began  to  awaken  for 
the  day.  Her  heart  melted  and 
flowed  forth  to  them  in  kindness. 
And  they,  from  their  small  and 
high  perches  in  the  clerestories  of 
the  wood  cathedral,  peered  down 
sidelong  at  the  ragged  Princess  as 
she  flitted  below  them  on  the  car- 
pet of  the  moss  and  tassel. 

Soon  she  had  struggled  to  a 
certain  hilltop,  and  saw  far  before 
her  the  silent  inflooding  of  the 
day.  Out  of  the  East  it  welled 
and  whitened ;  the  darkness  trem- 
bled into  light;  and  the  stars  were 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

extinguished  like  the  street-lamps 
of  a  human  city.  The  whiteness 
brightened  into  silver,  the  silver 
warmed  into  gold,  the  gold  kindled 
into  pure  and  living  fire ;  and  the 
face  of  the  East  was  barred  with 
elemental  scarlet.  The  day  drew 
its  first  long  breath,  steady  and 
chill ;  and  for  leagues  around  the 
woods  sighed  and  shivered.  And 
then,  at  one  bound,  the  sun  had 
floated  up;  and  her  startled  eyes 
received  day's  first  arrow,  and 
quailed  under  the  buffet.  On 
every  side,  the  shadows  leaped 
from  their  ambush  and  fell  prone. 
The  day  was  come,  plain  and  gar- 
ish ;  and  up  the  steep  and  solitary 
eastern  heaven,  the  sun,  victorious 
over  his  competitors,  continued 
slowly  and  royally  to  mount. 

Seraphina  drooped  for  a  little, 
leaning  on  a  pine,  the  shrill  joy  of 
the  woodlands  mocking  her.  The 
shelter  of  the  night,  the  thrilling 
and  joyous  changes  of  the  dawn, 
were  over;  and  now,  in   the  hot 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

eye  of  the  day,  she  turned  uneasily 
and  looked  sighingly  about  her. 
Some  way  off  among  the  lower 
woods,  a  pillar  of  smoke  was 
mounting  and  melting  in  the  gold 
and  blue.  There,  surely  enough, 
were  human  folk,  the  hearth-sur- 
rounders.  Man's  fingers  had  laid 
the  twigs;  it  was  man's  breath 
that  had  quickened  and  encour- 
aged the  baby  flames ;  and  now,  as 
the  fire  caught,  it  would  be  play- 
ing ruddily  on  the  face  of  its  crea- 
tor. At  the  thought,  she  felt 
a-cold  and  little  and  lost  in  that 
great  out-of-doors.  The  electric 
shock  of  the  young  sunbeams  and 
the  unhuman  beauty  of  the  woods 
began  to  irk  and  daunt  her.  The 
covert  of  the  house,  the  decent 
privacy  of  rooms,  the  swept  and 
regulated  fire,  all  that  denotes  or 
beautifies  the  home  life  of  man, 
began  to  draw  her  as  with  cords. 
The  pillar  of  smoke  was  now  risen 
into  some  stream  of  moving  air; 
it  began  to  lean  out  sideways  in  a 


15 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

pennon ;  and  thereupon,  as  though 
the  change  had  been  a  summons, 
Seraphina  plunged  once  more  into 
the  labyrinth  of  the  wood. 

She  left  day  upon  the  high 
ground.  In  the  lower  groves 
there  still  lingered  the  blue  early 
twilight  and  the  seizing  freshness 
of  the  dew.  But  here  and  there, 
above  this  field  of  shadow,  the 
head  of  a  great  outspread  pine 
was  already  glorious  with  day; 
and  here  and  there,  through  the 
breaches  of  the  hills,  the  sunbeams 
made  a  great  and  luminous  entry. 
Here  Seraphina  hastened  along 
forest  paths.  She  had  lost  sight 
of  the  pilot  smoke,  which  blew 
another  way,  and  conducted  her- 
self in  that  great  wilderness  by- 
the  direction  of  the  sun.  But 
presently  fresh  signs  bespoke  the 
neighbourhood  of  man ;  felled 
trunks,  white  slivers  from  the  axe, 
bundles  of  green  boughs,  and 
stacks  of  firewood.  These  guided 
her  forward;  until  she  came  forth 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

at  last  upon  the  clearing  whence 
the  smoke  arose.  A  hut  stood  in 
the  clear  shadow,  hard  by  a  brook 
which  made  a  series  of  inconsider- 
able falls;  and  on  the  threshold, 
the  Princess  saw  a  sun-burnt  and 
hard-featured  woodman,  standing 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back 
and  gazing  skyward. 

She  went  to  him  directly:  a 
beautiful,  bright-eyed,  and  haggard 
vision ;  splendidly  arrayed  and  pit- 
ifully tattered;  the  diamond  ear- 
drops still  glittering  in  her  ears; 
and  with  the  movement  of  her 
coming,  one  small  breast  showing 
and  hiding  among  the  ragged  cov- 
ert of  the  laces.  At  that  ambigu- 
ous hour,  and  coming  as  she  did 
from  the  great  silence  of  the  forest, 
the  man  drew  back  from  the  Prin- 
cess as  from  something  elfin. 

"I  am  cold,"  she  said,  "and 
weary.  Let  me  rest  beside  your 
fire." 

The  woodman  was  visibly  corn- 
moved,  but  answered  nothing. 


17 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

"  I  will  pay,"  she  said,  and  then 
repented  of  the  words,  catching 
perhaps  a  spark  of  terror  from  his 
frightened  eyes.  But,  as  usual, 
her  courage  rekindled  brighter  for 
the  check.  She  put  him  from  the 
door  and  entered;  and  he  followed 
her  in  superstitious  wonder. 

Within,  the  hut  was  rough  and 
dark ;  but  on  the  stone  that  served 
as  hearth,  twigs  and  a  few  dry 
branches  burned  with  the  brisk 
sounds  and  all  the  variable  beauty 
of  fire.  The  very  sight  of  it  com- 
posed her;  she  crouched  hard  by 
on  the  earth  floor  and  shivered  in 
the  glow,  and  looked  upon  the 
eating  blaze  wath  admiration.  The 
woodman  was  still  staring  at  his 
guest :  at  the  wreck  of  the  rich- 
dress,  the  bare  arms,  the  bedrag- 
gled laces  and  the  gems.  He 
found  no  word  to  utter. 

"  Give  me  food,"  said  she, — 
"here,  by  the  fire." 

He  set  down  a  pitcher  of  coarse 
wine,  bread,  a  piece  of  cheese,  and 

i8 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

a  handful  of  raw  onions.  The 
bread  was  hard  and  sour,  the 
cheese  like  leather;  even  the 
onion,  which  ranks  with  the  truffle 
and  the  nectarine  in  the  chief 
place  of  honour  of  earth's  fruits,  is 
not  perhaps  a  dish  for  Princesses 
when  raw.  But  she  ate,  if  not 
with  appetite,  with  courage;  and 
when  she  had  eaten,  did  not  dis- 
dain the  pitcher.  In  all  her  life 
before,  she  had  not  tasted  of  gross 
food  nor  drunk  after  another ;  but 
a  brave  woman  far  more  readily 
accepts  a  change  of  circumstances 
than  the  bravest  man.  All  that 
while,  the  woodman  continued  to 
observe  her  furtively,  many  low 
thoughts  of  fear  and  greed  con- 
tending in  his  eyes.  She  read 
them  clearly,  and  she  knew  she 
must  begone. 

Presently  she  arose  and  orfered 
him  a  florin. 

"  Will  that  repay  you  ?  "  she 
asked. 

But   here    the    man    found    his 


19 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

tongue.  "I  must  have  more  than 
that,"  said  he. 

"It  is  all  I  have  to  give  you," 
she  returned,  and  passed  him  by 
serenely. 

Yet  her  heart  trembled,  for  she 
saw  his  hand  stretched  forth  as  if 
to  arrest  her,  and  his  unsteady 
eyes  wandering  to  his  axe.  A 
beaten  path  led  westward  from 
the  clearing,  and  she  swiftly  fol- 
lowed it.  She  did  not  glance  be- 
hind her.  But  as  soon  as  the 
least  turning  of  the  path  had  con- 
cealed her  from  the  woodman's 
eyes,  she  slipped  among  the  trees 
and  ran  till  she  deemed  herself  in 
safety. 

By  this  time  the  strong  sunshine 
pierced  in  a  thousand  places  the. 
pine-thatch  of  the  forest,  fired  the 
red  boles,  irradiated  the  cool  isles 
of  shadow,  and  burned  in  jewels 
on  the  grass.  The  gum  of  these 
trees  was  dearer  to  the  senses 
than  the  gums  of  Araby ;  each 
pine,  in  the  lusty  morning  sunlight, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

burned  its  own  wood-incense ;  and 
now  and  then  a  breeze  would  rise 
and  toss  these  rooted  censers,  and 
send  shade  and  sun-gem  flitting, 
swift  as  swallows,  thick  as  bees; 
and  wake  a  brushing  bustle  of 
sounds  that  murmured  and  went 
by. 

On  she  passed,  and  up  and 
down,  in  sun  and  shadow;  now 
aloft  on  the  bare  ridge  among  the 
rocks  and  birches,  with  the  lizards 
and  the  snakes;  and  anon  in  the 
deep  grove  among  sunless  pillars. 
Now  she  followed  wandering 
wood-paths,  in  the  maze  of  val- 
leys; and  again,  from  a  hilltop, 
beheld  the  distant  mountains  and 
the  great  birds  circling  under  the 
sky.  She  would  see  afar  off  a 
nestling  hamlet,  and  go  round  to 
avoid  it.  Below,  she  traced  the 
course  of  the  foam  of  mountain 
torrents.  Nearer  hand,  she  saw- 
where  the  tender  springs  welled  up 
in  silence,  or  oozed  in  green  moss ; 
or  in  the  more  favoured  hollows  a 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

whole  family  of  infant  rivers  would 
combine,  and  tinkle  in  the  stones, 
and  lie  in  pools  to  be  a  bathing- 
place  for  sparrows,  or  fall  from  the 
sheer  rock  in  rods  of  crystal. 
Upon  all  these  things,  as  she  still 
sped  along  in  the  bright  air,  she 
looked  with  a  rapture  of  surprise 
and  a  joyful  fainting  of  the  heart; 
they  seemed  so  novel,  they  touched 
so  strangely  home,  they  were  so 
hued  and  scented,  they  were  so 
beset  and  canopied  by  the  dome 
of  the  blue  air  of  heaven. 

At  length,  when  she  was  well 
weary,  she  came  upon  a  wide  and 
shallow  pool.  Stones  stood  in  it, 
like  islands;  buUrushes  fringed 
the  coast;  the  floor  was  paved 
with  the  pine  needles,  and  the 
pines  themselves,  whose  roots 
made  promontories,  looked  down 
silently  on  their  green  images. 
She  crept  to  the  margin  and  be- 
held herself  with  wonder,  a  hollow 
and  bright-eyed  phantom,  in  the 
ruins    of   her   palace   robe.      The 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

breeze  now  shook  her  image  ;  now 
it  would  be  marred  with  flies ;  and 
at  that  she  smiled;  and  from  the 
fading  circles,  her  counterpart 
smiled  back  to  her  and  looked 
kind-  She  sat  long  in  the  warm 
sun,  and  pitied  her  bare  arms  that 
were  all  bruised  and  marred  with 
falling,  and  marvelled  to  see  that 
she  was  dirty,  and  could  not  grow- 
to  believe  that  she  had  gone  so 
long  in  such  a  strange  disorder. 

Then,  with  a  sigh,  she  addressed 
herself  to  make  a  toilet  by  that 
forest  mirror,  washed  herself  pure 
from  all  the  stains  of  her  adven- 
ture, took  off  her  jewels  and 
wrapped  them  in  her  handkerchief, 
rearranged  the  tatters  of  her  dress, 
and  took  down  the  folds  of  her 
hair.  She  shook  it  round  her  face, 
and  the  pool  repeated  her  thus 
veiled.  Her  hair  had  smelt  like 
violets,  she  remembered  Otto  say- 
ing; and  so  now  she  tried  to  smell 
it,  and  then  shook  her  head,  and 
laughed  a  little,  sadly,  to  herself. 

23 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  FRINCESS 

The  laugh  was  returned  upon 
her  m  a  childish  echo.  She  looked 
up ;  and  lo  1  two  children  looking 
on,  —  a  small  girl  and  a  yet  smaller 
boy,  standing,  like  playthings,  by 
the  pool,  below  a  spreading  pine. 
Seraphrna  was  not  fond  of  chil- 
dren, and  now  she  was  startled  to 
the  heart. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  she  cried, 
hoarsely. 

The  mites  huddled  together  and 
drew  back;  and  Seraphina's  heart 
reproached  her  that  she  should 
have  frightened  things  so  quaint 
and  little,  and  yet  alive  with  senses. 
She  thought  upon  the  birds  and 
looked  again  at  her  two  visitors; 
so  little  larger  and  so  far  more 
innocent.  On  their  clear  faces,  as 
in  a  pool,  she  saw  the  reflection 
of  their  fears.  With  gracious  pur- 
pose she  arose. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "do  not  be 
afraid  of  me,"  and  took  a  step 
towards  them. 

But  alas!  at  the  first  movement, 


24 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

the  two  poor  babes  in  the  wood 
turned  and  ran  helter-skelter  from 
the  Princess, 

The  most  desolate  pang  was 
struck  into  the  girl's  heart.  Here 
she  was,  twenty-two  —  soon  twen- 
ty-three —  and  not  a  creature  loved 
her;  none  but  Otto;  and  would 
even  he  forgive  ?  If  she  began 
weeping  in  these  woods  alone,  it 
would  mean  death  or  madness. 
Hastily  she  trod  the  thoughts 
out  like  a  burning  paper;  hastily 
rolled  up  her  locks,  and  with 
terror  dogging  her,  and  her  whole 
bosom  sick  with  grief,  resumed 
her  journey 

Past  ten  in  the  forenoon,  she 
struck  a  highroad,  marching  in 
that  place  up-hill  between  two 
stately  groves,  a  river  of  sunlight ; 
and  here,  dead  weary,  careless  of 
consequences,  and  taking  some 
courage  from  the  human  and  civ- 
ilised neighbourhood  of  the  road, 
she  stretched  herself  on  the  green 
margin  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree. 


25 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

Sleep  closed  on  her,  at  first  with 
a  horror  of  fainting,  but  when  she 
ceased  to  struggle,  kindly  em- 
bracing her.  So  she  was  taken 
home  for  a  little,  from  all  her  toils 
and  sorrows,  to  her  Father's  arms. 
And  there  in  the  meanwhile  her 
body  lay  exposed  by  the  high- 
way-side, in  tattered  finery;  and 
on  either  hand  from  the  woods 
the  birds  came  flying  by  and  call- 
ing upon  others,  and  debated  in 
their  own  tongue  this  strange 
appearance. 


II 


A  little  below  where  they  stood, 
a  good-sized  brook  passed  below 
the  road,  which  overleapt  it  in  a 
single  arch.  On  one  bank  of  that 
loquacious  water  a  footpath  de- 
scended a  green  dell.  Here  it 
was  rocky  and  stony,  and  lay  on 
the  steep  scarps  of  the  ravine; 
here  it  was  choked  with  brambles ; 
and  there,  in  fairy  haughs,  it  lay 

26 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

for  a  few  paces  evenly  on  the 
green  turf.  Like  a  sponge,  the 
hillside  oozed  with  well-water. 
The  burn  kept  growing  both  in 
force  and  volume;  at  every  leap 
it  fell  with  heavier  plunges  and 
span  more  widely  in  the  pool. 
Great  had  been  the  labours  of 
that  stream,  and  great  and  agree- 
able the  changes  it  had  wrought. 
It  had  cut  through  dykes  of  stub- 
born rock,  and  now,  like  a  blow- 
ing dolphin,  spouted  through  the 
orifice ;  along  all  its  humble  coasts, 
it  had  undermined  and  rafted- 
down  the  goodlier  timber  of  the 
forest;  and  on  these  rough  clear- 
ings it  now  set  and  tended  prim- 
rose gardens,  and  planted  woods 
of  willow,  and  made  a  favourite 
of  the  silver  birch.  Through  all 
these  friendly  features  the  path, 
its  human  acolyte,  conducted  our 
two  wanderers  downward,  —  Otto 
before,  still  pausing  at  the  more 
difficult  passages  to  lend  assist- 
ance;     the     Princess     following. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

From  time  to  time,  when  he  turned 
to  help  her,  her  face  would  lighten 
upon  his  —  her  eyes,  half  despe- 
rately, woo  him.  He  saw,  but 
dared  not  understand.  "  She  does 
not  love  me,"  he  told  himself, 
with  magnanimity.  "  This  is  re- 
morse or  gratitude ;  I  were  no 
gentleman,  no,  nor  yet  a  man, 
if  I  presumed  upon  these  pitiful 
concessions." 

Some  way  down  the  glen,  the 
stream,  already  grown  to  a  good 
bulk  of  water,  was  rudely  dammed 
across,  and  about  a  third  of  it 
abducted  in  a  wooden  trough. 
Gayly  the  pure  water,  air's  first 
cousin,  fleeted  along  the  rude 
aqueduct,  whose  sides  and  floor 
it  had  made  green  with  grasses. 
The  path,  bearing  it  close  com- 
pany, threaded  a  wilderness  of 
briar  and  wild  rose.  And  pres- 
ently, a  little  in  front,  the  brown 
top  of  a  mill  and  the  tall  mill- 
wheel,  sprapng  diamonds,  arose 
in  the  narrows  of  the  glen ;  at  the 

28 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

same  time  the  snoring  music  of 
the  saws  broke  the  silence. 

The  miller,  hearing  steps,  came 
forth  to  his  door,  and  both  he  and 
Otto  started. 

"  Good-morning,  miller,"  said 
the  Prince.  "  You  were  right,  it 
seems,  and  I  was  wrong.  I  give 
you  the  news,  and  bid  you  to  Mitt- 
walden.  My  throne  has  fallen  — 
great  was  the  fall  of  it!  —  and 
your  good  friends  of  the  Phoenix 
bear  the  rule." 

The  red-faced  miller  looked 
supreme  astonishment.  "And 
your  Highness?"    he  gasped. 

"  My  Highness  is  running  away," 
replied  Otto,  "straight  for  the 
frontier." 

"  Leaving  Griinewald  ? "  cried 
the  man.  "Your  father's  son? 
It's  not  to  be  permitted!" 

"  Do  you  arrest  us,  friend  ? " 
asked  Otto,  smiling. 

"  Arrest  you  ?  I  ? "  exclaimed 
the  man.  "For  what  does  your 
Highness  take  me  ?     ^Vhy,  sir,  I 


29 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

make  sure  there  is  not  a  man  in 
Griinewald  would  lay  hands  upon 
you." 

"O,  many,  many,"  said  the 
Prince ;  *'  but  from  you,  who  were 
bold  with  me  in  my  greatness,  I 
should  even  look  for  aid  in  my 
distress." 

The  miller  became  the  colour 
of  beetroot.  "You  may  say  so 
indeed,"  said  he.  "  And  mean- 
while, will  you  and  your  lady  step 
into  my  house  ? " 

"  We  have  not  time  for  that," 
replied  the  Prince;  "but  if  you 
will  oblige  us  with  a  cup  of  wine 
without  here,  you  will  give  a 
pleasure  and  a  service,  both  in 
one." 

The  miller  once  m.ore  coloured 
to  the  nape.  He  hastened  to 
bring  forth  wine  in  a  pitcher  and 
three  bright  crystal  tumblers. 
"Your  Highness  must  not  sup- 
pose," he  said,  as  he  filled  them, 
"that  I  am  an  habitual  drinker. 
The  time  when  I  had  the  misfor- 


30 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

tune  to  encounter  you,  I  was  a 
trifle  overtaken,  I  allow;  but  a 
more  sober  man  than  I  am  in  my 
ordinar}-,  I  do  not  know  where 
you  are  to  look  for;  and  even  this 
glass  that  I  drink  to  you  (and  to 
the  lady)  is  quite  an  unusual 
recreation." 

The  wine  was  drunk  with  due 
rustic  courtesies;  and  then,  refus- 
ing further  hospitality,  Otto  and 
Seraphina  once  more  proceeded 
to  descend  the  glen,  which  now 
began  to  open  and  to  be  invaded 
by  the  taller  trees. 

"  I  owed  that  man  a  repara- 
tion," said  the  Prince;  "for  when 
we  met  I  was  in  the  wrong  and 
put  a  sore  affront  upon  him.  I 
judge  by  myself,  perhaps;  but  I 
begin  to  think  that  no  one  is  the 
better  for  a  humiliation." 

"  But  some  have  to  be  taught 
so,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  with  a 
painful  embarrassment.  "  Well, 
well.     But  let  us  think  of  safety. 


3^ 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

My  miller  is  all  very  good,  but  I 
do  not  pin  my  faith  to  him.  To 
follow  down  this  stream  will  bring 
us,  but  after  innumerable  wind- 
ings, to  my  house.  Here,  up  this 
glade,  there  lies  a  cross-cut  —  the 
world's  end  for  solitude — the 
very  deer  scarce  visit  it.  Are  you 
too  tired,  or  could  you  pass  that 
way  ? " 

"  Choose  the  path.  Otto.  I  will 
follow  you,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  a  sin- 
gular imbecility  of  manner  and 
appearance,  "  but  I  meant  the  path 
was  rough.  It  lies,  all  the  way,  by 
glade  and  dingle,  and  the  dingles 
are  both  deep  and  thorny." 

"Lead  on,"  she  said.  "Are 
you  not  Otto  the  Hunter?" 

They  had  now  burst  across  a 
veil  of  unden\-ood,  and  were  come 
into  a  lawn  among  the  forest,  very 
green  and  innocent,  and  solemnly 
surrounded  by  trees.  Otto  paused 
on  the  margin,  looking  about  him 
with  delight;  then  his  glance  re- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

turned  to  Seraphina,  as  she  stood 
framed  in  that  sylvan  pleasantness 
and  looking  at  her  husband  with 
undecipherable  eyes.  A  weakness 
both  of  the  body  and  mind  fell  on 
him  like  the  beginnings  of  sleep; 
the  cords  of  his  activity  were  re- 
laxed, his  eyes  clung  to  her.  "Let 
us  rest,"  he  said;  and  he  made  her 
sit  down,  and  himself  sat  down 
beside  her  on  the  slope  of  an  in- 
considerable mound. 

She  sat  with  her  eyes  down- 
cast, her  slim  hand  dabbling  in 
grass,  like  a  maid  waiting  for  love's 
summons.  The  sound  of  the  wind 
in  the  forest  swelled  and  sank, 
and  drew  near  them  with  a  run- 
ning rush,  and  died  away  and 
away  in  the  distance  into  fainting 
whispers.  Nearer  hand,  a  bird 
out  of  the  deep  covert  uttered 
broken  and  anxious  notes.  All 
this  seemed  but  a  halting  prelude 
to  speech.  To  Otto  it  seemed  as 
if  the  whole  frame  of  nature  were 
waiting  for  his  words  ;  and  yet  his 


33 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

pride  kept  him  silent.  The  longer 
he  watched  that  slender  and  pale 
hand  plucking  at  the  grasses,  the 
harder  and  rougher  grew  the  fight 
between  pride  and  its  kindly  ad- 
versary. 

"  Seraphina,"  he  said  at  last,  "  it 
is  right  you  should  know  one 
thing:  I  never  .  .  .  ."  He  was 
about  to  say  "  doubted  you,"  but 
was  that  true  ?  And,  if  true, 
was  it  generous  to  speak  of  it  ? 
Silence  succeeded. 

"I  pray  you,  tell  it  me,"  she 
said;  "tell  it  me,  in  pity." 

"  I  mean  only  this,"  he  resumed, 
"  that  I  understand  all,  and  do  not 
blame  you.  I  understand  how 
the  brave  woman  must  look  down 
on  the  weak  man.  I  think  you 
were  wrong  in  some  things;  but 
I  have  tried  to  understand  it,  and 
I  do.  I  do  not  need  to  forget  or 
to  forgive,  Seraphina,  for  I  have 
understood." 

"I  know  what  I  have  done," 
she  said.     "  I  am  not  so  weak  that 


34 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

I  can  be  deceived  with  kind 
speeches.  I  know  what  I  have 
been  —  I  see  myself.  I  am  not 
worth  your  anger,  how  much  less 
to  be  forgiven !  In  all  this  down- 
fall and  misery,  I  see  only  me  and 
you :  you,  as  you  have  been 
always;  me,  as  I  was  —  me,  above 
all!  O  yes,  I  see  myself:  and 
what  can  I  think  ? " 

"  Ah,  then,  let  us  reverse  the 
parts ! "  said  Otto.  *'  It  is  our- 
selves we  cannot  forgive,  when 
we  deny  forgiveness  to  another 
—  so  a  friend  told  me  last  night. 
On  these  terms,  Seraphina,  you 
see  how  generously  I  have  for- 
given myself.  But  am  not  /  to 
be  forgiven  ?  Come,  then,  forgive 
yourself  —  and  me." 

She  did  not  answer  in  words, 
but  reached  out  her  hand  to  him 
quickly.  He  took  it;  and  as  the 
smooth  fingers  settled  and  nestled 
in  his,  love  ran  to  and  fro  between 
them  in  tender  and  transforming 
currents. 


35 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

"Seraphina,"  he  cried,  "O,  for- 
get the  past!  Let  me  serve  and 
help  you;  let  me  be  your  servant; 
it  is  enough  for  me  to  serve  you 
and  to  be  near  you;  let  me  be 
near  you,  dear — do  not  send  me 
away."  He  hurried  his  pleading 
like  the  speech  of  a  frightened 
child.  "  It  is  not  love,"  he  went 
on ;  "I  do  not  ask  for  love ;  my 
love  is  enough.  .  .  ." 

"  Otto  ! "  she  said,  as  if  in  pain. 

He  looked  up  into  her  face.  It 
was  wrung  with  the  very  ecstasy 
of  tenderness  and  anguish;  on 
her  features,  and  most  of  all  in 
her  changed  eyes,  there  shone  the 
very  light  of  love. 

"Seraphina?"  he  cried  aloud, 
and  with  a  sudden,  tuneless  voice-, 
"  Seraphina?" 

"  Look  round  you  at  this  glade," 
she  cried,  "and  where  the  leaves 
are  coming  on  young  trees,  and 
the  flowers  begin  to  blossom. 
This  is  where  we  meet,  meet  for 
the  first  time ;  it  is  so  much  better 


36 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  PRINCESS 

to  forget  and  to  be  bom  again. 
O,  what  a  pit  there  is  for  sins  — 
God's  mercy,  man's  oblivion  !  " 

"  Seraphina,"  he  said,  "let  it  be 
so,  indeed;  let  all  that  was  be 
merely  the  abuse  of  dreaming;  let 
me  begin  again,  a  stranger.  I 
have  dreamed,  in  a  long  dream, 
that  I  adored  a  girl  unkind  and 
beautiful ;  in  all  things  my  superior, 
but  still  cold  like  ice.  And  again 
I  dreamed,  and  thought  she 
changed  and  melted,  glowed  and 
turned  to  me.  And  I  —  who  had 
no  merit  but  a  love,  slavish  and 
unerect  —  lay  close,  and  durst  not 
move  for  fear  of  waking." 

"  Lie  close,"  she  said,  with  a 
deep  thrill  of  speech. 

So  they  spake  in  the  spring 
woods;  and  meanwhile,  in  Mitt- 
walden  Rath-haus  the  Republic 
was  declared. 


OLD  MORTALITY 
I 

THERE  is  a  certain  graveyard, 
looked  upon  on  the  one  side 
by  a  prison,  on  the  other  by  the 
windows  of  a  quiet  hotel;  below, 
under  a  steep  cliff,  it  beholds  the 
traffic  of  many  lines  of  rail,  and 
the  scream  of  the  engine  and  the 
shock  of  meeting  buffers  mount 
to  it  all  day  long.  The  aisles  are 
lined  with  the  inclosed  sepulchres 
of  families,  door  beyond  door,  like 
houses  in  a  street;  and  in  the 
morning  the  shadow  of  the  prison 
turrets,  and  of  many  tall  memo- 
rials, fall  upon  the  graves.  There, 
in  the  hot  fits  of  youth,  I  came  to 
be  unhappy.  Pleasant  incidents 
are  woven  -snth  my  memory  of 
the  place.  I  here  made  friends 
with  a  certain  plain  old  gentle- 
man, a  visitor  on  sunny  mornings, 
gravely  cheerful,  who,   with    one 


39 


OLD     MORTALITY 

eye  upon  the  place  that  awaited 
him,  chirped  about  his  youth  Uke 
winter  sparrows;  a  beautiful 
housemaid  of  the  hotel  once,  for 
some  days  together,  dumbly  flirted 
with  me  from  a  window  and  kept 
my  wild  heart  flying;  and  once  — 
she  possibly  remembers  —  the  wise 
Eugenia  followed  me  to  that  aus- 
tere inclosure.  Her  hair  came 
down,  and  in  the  shelter  of  the 
tomb  my  trembling  fingers  helped 
her  to  repair  the  braid.  But  for 
the  most  part  I  went  there  solitary 
and,  with  irrevocable  emotion, 
pored  on  the  names  of  the  for- 
gotten. Name  after  name,  and 
to  each  the  conventional  attribu- 
tions and  the  idle  dates:  a  regi- 
ment of  the  unknown  that  had- 
been  the  joy  of  mothers,  and  had 
thrilled  with  the  illusions  of  youth, 
and  at  last,  in  the  dim  sick-room, 
wrestled  with  the  pangs  of  old 
mortality.  In  that  whole  crew  of 
the  silenced  there  was  but  one  of 
whom  my  fancy  had   received  a 

40 


OLD    MORTALITY 

picture ;  and  he,  with  his  comely, 
florid  countenance,  bewigged  and 
habited  in  scariet,  and  in  his  day 
combining  fame  and  popularity, 
stood  forth,  like  a  taunt,  among 
that  company  of  phantom  appella- 
tions. It  was  then  possible  to 
leave  behind  us  something  more 
explicit  than  these  severe,  monot- 
onous and  lying  epitaphs;  and 
the  thing  left,  the  memory  of  a 
painted  picture  and  what  we  call 
the  immortality  of  a  name,  was 
hardly  more  desirable  than  mere 
oblivion.  Even  David  Hume,  as 
he  lay  composed  beneath  that 
"circular  idea,"  was  fainter  than 
a  dream;  and  when  the  house- 
maid, broom  in  hand,  smiled  and 
beckoned  from  the  open  window, 
the  fame  of  that  bewigged  philos- 
opher melted  like  a  raindrop  in 
the  sea. 

And  yet  in  soberness  I  cared  as 
little  for  the  housemaid  as  for 
David  Hume.  The  interests  of 
youth  are   rarely  frank ;    his  pas- 


41 


OLD     MORTALITY 

sions,  like  Noah's  dove,  come 
home  to  roost.  The  fire,  sensibil- 
ity, and  volume  of  his  own  nature, 
that  is  all  that  he  has  learned  to 
recognise.  The  tumultuary  and 
gray  tide  of  life,  the  empire  of 
routine,  the  unrejoicing  faces  of 
his  elders,  fill  him  with  contemp- 
tuous surprise;  there  also  he 
seems  to  walk  among  the  tombs 
of  spirits;  and  it  is  only  in  the 
course  of  years,  and  after  much 
rubbing  with  his  fellow-men,  that 
he  begins  by  glimpses  to  see  him- 
self from  without  and  his  fellows 
from  within :  to  know  his  own  for 
one  among  the  thousand  unde- 
noted  countenances  of  the  city 
street,  and  to  divine  in  others  the 
throb  of  human  agony  and  hope? 
In  the  meantime  he  will  avoid  the 
hospital  doors,  the  pale  faces,  the 
cripple,  the  sweet  whiff  of  chloro- 
form—  for  there,  on  the  most 
thoughtless,  the  pains  of  others 
are  burned  home;  but  he  will 
continue  to  walk,  in  a  divine  self- 


42 


OLD     MORTALITY 

pity,  the  aisles  of  the  forgotten 
graveyard.  The  length  of  man's 
life,  which  is  endless  to  the  brave 
and  busy,  is  scorned  by  his  ambi- 
tious thought.  He  cannot  bear 
to  have  come  for  so  little,  and  to 
go  again  so  wholly.  He  cannot 
bear,  above  all,  in  that  brief  scene, 
to  be  still  idle,  and  by  way  of 
cure,  neglects  the  little  that  he 
has  to  do.  The  parable  of  the 
talent  is  the  brief  epitome  of 
youth.  To  believe  in  immortality 
is  one  thing,  but  it  is  first  needful 
to  believe  in  life.  Denunciatory 
preachers  seem  not  to  suspect 
that  they  may  be  taken  gravely 
and  in  evil  part ;  that  young  men 
may  come  to  think  of  time  as  of  a 
moment,  and  with  the  pride  of 
Satan  wave  back  the  inadequate 
gift.  Yet  here  is  a  true  peril; 
this  it  is  that  sets  them  to  pace 
the  graveyard  alleys  and  to  read, 
with  strange  extremes  of  pity  and 
derision,  the  memorials  of  the 
dead. 


43 


OLD     MORTALITY 

Books  were  the  proper  remedy : 
books  of  vivid  human  import, 
forcing  upon  their  minds  the 
issues,  pleasures,  busyness,  impor- 
tance and  immediacy  of  that  life 
in  which  they  stand;  books  of 
smiling  or  heroic  temper,  to  excite 
or  to  console;  books  of  a  large 
design,  shadowing  the  complexity 
of  that  game  of  consequences  to 
which  we  all  sit  down,  the  hanger- 
back  not  least.  But  the  average 
sermon  flees  the  point,  disporting 
itself  in  that  eternity  of  which  we 
know,  and  need  to  know,  so  little ; 
avoiding  the  bright,  crowded,  and 
momentous  fields  of  life  where 
destiny  awaits  us.  Upon  the 
average  book  a  writer  may  be 
silent;  he  may  set  it  down  to  his 
ill-hap  that  when  his  own  youth 
was  in  the  acrid  fermentation,  he 
should  have  fallen  and  fed  upon 
the  cheerless  fields  of  Obermann. 
Yet  to  Mr.  Arnold,  who  led  him 
to  these  pastures,  he  still  bears  a 
grudge.     The  day  is  perhaps  not 

44 


OLD     MORTALITY 

far  off  when  people  will  begin  to 
count  Moll  Flanders,  ay,  or  The 
Country  Wife,  more  wholesome 
and  more  pious  diet  than  these 
guide-books  to  consistent  egoism. 
But  the  most  inhuman  of  boys 
soon  wearies  of  the  inhumanity 
of  Obermann.  And  even  while  I 
still  continued  to  be  a  haunter  of 
the  graveyard,  I  began  insensibly 
to  turn  my  attention  to  the  grave^ 
diggers,  and  was  weaned  out  of 
myself  to  observe  the  conduct 
of  visitors.  This  was  dayspring, 
indeed,  to  a  lad  in  such  great 
darkness.  Not  that  I  began  to 
see  men,  or  to  try  to  see  them, 
from  within,  nor  to  learn  charity 
and  modesty  and  justice  from 
the  sight;  but  still  stared  at  them 
externally  from  the  prison  win- 
dows of  my  affectation.  Once  I 
remember  to  have  observed  two 
working-women  with  a  baby  halt- 
ing by  a  grave ;  there  was  some- 
thing monumental  in  the  grouping, 
one  upright  carrying  the  child,  the 


45 


OLD     MORTALITY 

Other  with  bowed  face  crouching 
by  her  side.  A  wreath  of  immor- 
telles under  a  glass  dome  had 
thus  attracted  them;  and,  draw- 
ing near,  I  overheard  their  judg- 
ment on  that  wonder.  *'  Eh ! 
what  extravagance ! "  To  a  youth 
afflicted  with  the  callosity  of  senti- 
ment, this  quaint  and  pregnant 
saying  appeared  merely  base. 

My  acquaintance  with  grave- 
diggers,  considering  its  length, 
was  unremarkable.  One,  indeed, 
whom  I  found  plying  his  spade  in 
the  red  evening,  high  above  Allan 
Water  and  in  the  shadow  of 
Dunblane  Cathedral,  told  me  of 
his  acquaintance  with  the  birds 
that  still  attended  on  his  labours; 
how  some  would  even  perch 
about  him,  waiting  for  their  prey ; 
and  in  a  true  Sexton's  Calendar, 
how  the  species  varied  with  the 
season  of  the  year.  But  this  was 
the  very  poetry  of  the  profession. 
The  others  whom  I  knew  were 
somewhat    dry.     A    faint    flavour 

46 


OLD     MORTALITY 

of  the  gardener  hung  about  them, 
but  sophisticated  and  disbloomed. 
They  had  engagements  to  keep, 
not  alone  with  the  deliberate 
series  of  the  seasons,  but  with 
mankind's  clocks  and  hour-long 
measurement  of  time.  And  thus 
there  was  no  leisure  for  the  relish- 
ing pinch,  or  the  hour-long  gossip, 
foot  on  spade.  They  were  men 
wrapped  up  in  their  grim  business; 
they  liked  well  to  open  long  closed 
family  vaults,  blowing  in  the  key 
and  throwing  wide  the  grating; 
and  they  carried  in  their  minds  a 
calendar  of  names  and  dates.  It 
would  be  "in  fifty-twa"  that  such 
a  tomb  was  last  opened  for  "  Miss 
Jemimy."  It  was  thus  they  spoke 
of  their  past  patients  —  familiarly 
but  not  without  respect,  like  old 
family  servants.  Here  is  indeed 
a  servant,  whom  we  forget  that 
we  possess;  who  does  not  wait  at 
the  bright  table,  or  run  at  the 
bell's  summons,  but  patiently 
smokes  his  pipe  beside  the  mor- 


47 


OLD    MORTALITY 

tuary  fire,  and  in  his  faithful 
memory  notches  the  burials  of 
our  race.  To  suspect  Shake- 
speare in  his  maturity  of  a  super- 
ficial touch  savours  of  paradox ; 
yet  he  was  surely  in  error  when 
he  attributed  insensibility  to  the 
digger  of  the  grave.  But  perhaps 
it  is  on  Hamlet  that  the  charge 
should  lie;  or  perhaps  the  English 
sexton  differs  from  the  Scotch. 
The  "  goodman  delver,"  reckoning 
up  his  years  of  office,  might  have 
at  least  suggested  other  thoughts. 
It  is  a  pride  common  among  sex- 
tons. A  cabinet-maker  does  not 
count  his  cabinets,  nor  even  an 
author  his  volumes,  save  when 
they  stare  upon  him  from  the 
shelves ;  but  the  grave-digger 
numbers  his  graves.  He  would 
indeed  be  something  different 
from  human  if  his  solitary  open- 
air  and  tragic  labours  left  not  a 
broad  mark  upon  his  mind. 
There,  in  his  tranquil  aisle,  apart 
from   city    clamour,    among    the 

48 


OLD    MORTALITY 

cats  and  robins  and  the  ancient 
effigies  and  legends  of  the  tomb, 
he  awaits  the  continual  passage 
of  his  contemporaries,  falling  like 
minute  drops  into  eternity.  As 
they  fall,  he  counts  them;  and 
this  enumeration,  which  was  at 
first  perhaps  appalling  to  his  soul, 
in  the  process  of  years  and  by  the 
kindly  influence  of  habit  grows  to 
be  his  pride  and  pleasure.  There 
are  many  common  stories  telling 
how  he  piques  himself  on  crowded 
cemeteries.  But  I  will  rather  tell 
of  the  old  grave-digger  of  Monk- 
ton,  to  whose  unsuffering  bedside 
the  minister  was  summoned.  He 
dwelt  in  a  cottage  built  into  the 
wall  of  the  churchyard;  and 
through  a  bull's-eye  pane  above  his 
bed  he  could  see,  as  he  lay  dying, 
the  rank  grasses  and  the  upright 
and  recumbent  stones.  Dr. 
Laurie  was,  I  think,  a  Moderate : 
'tis  certain,  at  least,  that  he  took 
a  very  Roman  view  of  deathbed 
dispositions;  for  he  told   the  old 


49 


OLD     MORTALITY 

man  that  he  had  lived  beyond 
man's  natural  years,  that  his  life 
had  been  easy  and  reputable,  that 
his  family  had  all  grown  up  and 
been  a  credit  to  his  care,  and  that 
it  now  behoved  him  unregretfully 
to  gird  his  loins  and  follow  the 
majority.  The  grave-digger  heard 
him  out;  then  he  raised  himself 
upon  one  elbow,  and  with  the 
other  hand  pointed  through  the 
window  to  the  scene  of  his  life- 
long labours.  *'  Doctor,"  he  said, 
"  I  ha'e  laid  three  hunner  and 
fower-score  in  that  kirkyaird;  an 
it  had  been  His  w^ull,"  indicating 
Heaven,  "  I  would  ha'e  likit  weel 
to  ha'e  made  out  the  fower  hun- 
ner." But  it  w'as  not  to  be ;  this 
tragedian  of  the  fifth  act  had  now 
another  part  to  play;  and  the 
time  had  come  when  others  were 
to  gird  and  carry  him. 


50 


OLD    MORTALITY 
II 

I  would  fain  strike  a  note  that 
should  be  more  heroical;  but  the 
ground  of  all  youth's  suffering, 
solitude,  hysteria,  and  haunting  of 
the  grave,  is  nothing  else  than 
naked,  ignorant  selfishness.  It  is 
himself  that  he  sees  dead;  those 
are  his  virtues  that  are  forgotten ; 
his  is  the  vague  epitaph.  Pity 
him  but  the  more,  if  pity  be  your 
cue ;  for  where  a  man  is  all  pride, 
vanity,  and  personal  aspiration,  he 
goes  through  fire  unshielded.  In 
every  part  and  comer  of  our  life, 
to  lose  oneself  is  to  be  gainer;  to 
forget  oneself  is  to  be  happy;  and 
this  poor,  laughable  and  tragic 
fool  has  not  yet  learned  the  rudi- 
ments; himself,  giant  Prometheus, 
is  still  ironed  on  the  peaks  of 
Caucasus.  But  by  and  by  his 
truant  interests  will  leave  that 
tortured  body,  slip  abroad  and 
gather  flowers.  Then  shall  death 
appear  before   him   in   an  altered 


51 


OLD    MORTALITY 

guise ;  no  longer  as  a  doom  pecu- 
liar to  himself,  whether  fate's 
crowning  injustice  or  his  own  last 
vengeance  upon  those  who  fail  to 
value  him;  but  now  as  a  power 
that  wounds  him  far  more  ten- 
derly, not  without  solemn  com- 
pensa^ons,  taking  and  giving, 
bereaving  and  yet  storing  up. 

The  first  step  for  all  is  to  learn 
to  the  dregs  our  own  ignoble 
fallibility.  When  we  have  fallen 
through  storey  after  storey  of  our 
vanity  and  aspiration,  and  sit  rue- 
ful among  the  ruins,  then  it  is 
that  we  begin  to  measure  the 
stature  of  our  friends:  how  they 
stand  between  us  and  our  own 
contempt,  believing  in  our  best; 
how,  linking  us  with  others,  and 
still  spreading  wide  the  influential 
circle,  they  weave  us  in  and  in 
with  the  fabric  of  contemporary 
life ;  and  to  what  petty  size  they 
dwarf  the  virtues  and  the  vices 
that  appeared  gigantic  in  our 
youth.     So  that  at  the  last,  when 


52 


OLD     MORTALITY 

such  a  pin  falls  out  —  when  there 
vanishes  in  the  least  breath  of 
time  one  of  those  rich  magazines 
of  life  on  which  we  drew  for  our 
supply  —  when  he  who  had  first 
dawned  upon  us  as  a  face  among 
the  faces  of  the  city,  and,  still 
growing,  came  to  bulk  on  our 
regard  with  those  clear  features 
of  the  loved  and  living  man,  falls 
in  a  breath  to  memor)-  and  shadow, 
there  falls  along  ^^•ith  him  a  whole 
wing  of  the  palace  of  our  life. 

Ill 

One  such  face  I  now  remember; 
one  such  blank  some  half  a  dozen 
of  us  labour  to  dissemble.  In  his 
youth  he  was  most  beautiful  in 
person,  most  serene  and  genial  by 
disposition ;  full  of  racy  words 
and  quaint  thoughts.  Laughter 
attended  on  his  coming.  He  had 
the  air  of  a  great  gentleman,  jovial 
and  royal  with  his  equals,  and  to 
the   poorest   student   gentle    and 


53 


OLD    MORTALITY 

attentive.  Power  seemed  to  reside 
in  him  exhaustless;  we  saw  him 
stoop  to  play  with  us,  but  held 
him  marked  for  higher  destinies ; 
we  loved  his  notice;  and  I  have 
rarely  had  my  pride  more  gratified 
than  when  he  sat  at  my  father's 
table,  my  acknowledged  friend. 
So  he  v.alked  among  us,  both 
hands  full  of  gifts,  carrying  with 
nonchalance  the  seeds  of  a  most 
influential  life. 

The  powers  and  the  ground  of 
friendship  is  a  mystery;  but,  look- 
ing back,  I  can  discern  that,  in 
part,  we  loved  the  thing  he  was, 
for  some  shadow  of  what  he  was 
to  be.  For  with  all  his  beauty, 
power,  breeding,  urbanity  and 
mirth,  there  was  in  those  days 
something  soulless  in  our  friend. 
He  would  astonish  us  by  sallies, 
witty,  innocent  and  inhumane ; 
and  by  a  misapplied  Johnsonian 
pleasantry,  demolish  honest  senti- 
ment. I  can  still  see  and  hear 
him,  as  he  went  his  way  along  the 

54 


OLD     MORTALITY 

lamplit  streets,  La  ci  darem  la 
mano  on  his  lips,  a  noble  figure  of 
a  youth,  but  following  vanity  and 
incredulous  of  good;  and  sure 
enough,  somewhere  on  the  high 
seas  of  life,  with  his  health,  his 
hopes,  his  patrimony  and  his  self- 
respect,  miserably  went  down. 

Yxovci  this  disaster,  like  a  spent 
swimmer,  he  came  desperately 
ashore,  bankrupt  of  money  and 
consideration;  creeping  to  the 
family  he  had  deserted;  with 
broken  wing,  never  more  to  rise. 
But  in  his  face  there  was  a  light 
of  knowledge  that  was  new  to  it. 
Of  the  wounds  of  his  body  he  was 
never  healed;  died  of  them  grad- 
ually, with  clear-eyed  resignation; 
of  his  wounded  pride,  we  knew 
only  from  his  silence.  He  returned 
to  that  city  where  he  had  lorded 
it  in  his  ambitious  youth ;  lived 
there  alone,  seeing  few;  striving 
to  retrieve  the  irretrievable;  at 
times  still  grappling  with  that 
mortal   frailty    that    had   brought 


55 


OLD    MORTALITY 

him  down;  still  joying  in  his 
friend's  successes;  his  laugh  still 
ready  but  with  kindlier  music; 
and  over  all  his  thoughts  the 
shadow  of  that  unalterable  law 
which  he  had  disavowed  and 
which  had  brought  him  low. 
Lastly,  when  his  bodily  evils  had 
quite  disabled  him,  he  lay  a  great 
while  dying,  still  without  com- 
plaint, still  finding  interests;  to 
his  last  step  gentle,  urbane  and 
with  the  will  to  smile. 

The  tale  of  this  great  failure  is, 
to  those  who  remained  true  to 
him,  the  tale  of  a  success.  In  his 
youth  he  took  thought  for  no  one 
but  himself;  when  he  came  ashore 
again,  his  whole  armada  lost,  he 
seemed  to  think  of  none  but 
others.  Such  was  his  tenderness 
for  others,  such  his  instinct  of  fine 
courtesy  and  pride,  that  of  that 
impure  passion  of  remorse  he 
never  breathed  a  syllable;  even 
regret  was  rare  with  him,  and 
pointed  with  a  jest.     You  would 

56 


OLD     MORTALITY 

not  have  dreamed,  if  you  had 
known  him  then,  that  this  was 
that  great  failure,  that  beacon  to 
young  men,  over  whose  fall  a 
whole  society  had  hissed  and 
pointed  fingers.  Often  have  we 
gone  to  him,  red-hot  with  our  own 
hopeful  sorrows,  railing  on  the 
rose-leaves  in  our  princely  bed  of 
life,  and  he  would  patiently  give 
ear  and  wisely  counsel;  and  it 
was  only  upon  some  return  of 
our  own  thoughts  that  we  were 
reminded  what  manner  of  man 
this  was  to  whom  we  disem- 
bosomed: a  man,  by  his  own 
fault,  ruined;  shut  out  of  the  gar- 
den of  his  gifts ;  his  whole  city  of 
hope  both  ploughed  and  salted; 
silently  awaiting  the  deliverer. 
Then  something  took  us  by  the 
throat;  and  to  see  him  there,  so 
gentle,  patient,  brave  and  pious, 
oppressed  but  not  cast  down, 
sorrow  was  so  swallowed  up  in 
admiration  that  we  could  not  dare 
to  pity  him.     Even  if  the  old  fault 


57 


OLD     MORTALITY 

flashed  out  again,  it  but  awoke 
our  wonder  that,  in  that  lost  bat- 
tle, he  should  have  still  the  energy 
to  fight.  He  had  gone  to  ruin 
with  a  kind  of  kingly  abandon, 
like  one  who  condescended;  but 
once  ruined,  with  the  lights  all 
out,  he  fought  as  for  a  kingdom. 
Most  men,  finding  themselves  the 
authors  of  their  own  disgrace,  rail 
the  louder  against  God  or  destiny. 
Most  men,  when  they  repent, 
oblige  their  friends  to  share  the 
bitterness  of  that  repentance. 
But  he  had  held  an  inquest  and 
passed  sentence :  mene^  mene ; 
and  condemned  himself  to  smiling 
silence.  He  had  given  trouble 
enough ;  had  earned  misfortune 
amply,  and  foregone  the  right  to. 
murmur. 

Thus  was  our  old  comrade,  like 
Samson,  careless  in  his  days  of 
strength;  but  on  the  coming  of 
adversity,  and  when  that  strength 
was  gone  that  had  betrayed  him 
—  "for  our  strength  is  weakness" 


OLD     MORTALITY 

—  he  began  to  blossom  and  bring 
forth.  Well,  now,  he  is  out  of 
the  fight :  the  burden  that  he 
bore  thrown  down  before  the 
great  deliverer.     We 

"in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him; 
God  accept  him, 
Christ  receive  him  !  " 


IV 

If  we  go  now  and  look  on  these 
innumerable  epitaphs,  the  pathos 
and  the  irony  are  strangely  fled. 
They  do  not  stand  merely  to  the 
dead,  these  foolish  monuments; 
they  are  pillars  and  legends  set 
up  to  glorify  the  difficult  but 
not  desperate  life  of  man.  This 
ground  is  hallowed  by  the  heroes 
of  defeat. 

I  see  the  indifferent  pass  before 
my  friend's  last  resting-place; 
pause,  with  a  shrug  of  pity,  mar- 
velling that  so  rich  an  argosy  had 
sunk.  A  pity,  now  that  he  is 
done  with  suffering,  a  pity  most 


59 


OLD     MORTALITY 

uncalled  for,  and  an  ignorant 
wonder.  Before  those  who  loved 
him,  his  memory  shines  like  a 
reproach;  they  honour  him  for 
silent  lessons;  they  cherish  his 
example;  and  in  what  remains 
before  them  of  their  toil,  fear  to 
be  unworthy  of  the  dead.  For 
this  proud  man  was  one  of  those 
who  prospered  in  the  valley  of 
humiliation ;  —  of  whom  Bunyan 
wrote  that,  "Though  Christian 
had  the  hard  hap  to  meet  in  the 
valley  with  Apollyon,  yet  I  must 
tell  you,  that  in  former  times  men 
have  met  with  angels  here;  have 
found  pearls  here;  and  have  in 
this  place  found  the  words  of 
life." 


AN     OLD     SCOTCH 
GARDENER 

I  THINK  I  might  almost  have 
said  the  last:  somewhere,  in- 
deed, in  the  uttermost  glens  of 
the  Lammermuir  or  among  the 
south-western  hills  there  may  yet 
linger  a  decrepid  represeniative  of 
this  bygone  good  fellowship ;  but 
as  far  as  actual  experience  goes, 
I  have  only  met  one  man  in  my 
life  who  might  fitly  be  quoted  in 
the  same  breath  with  Andrew 
Fairservice,  —  though  without  his 
vices.  He  was  a  man  whose  very 
presence  could  impart  a  savour  of 
quaint  antiquity  to  the  baldest 
and  most  modem  flower-plots. 
There  was  a  dignity  about  his  tall 
stooping  form,  and  an  earnestness 
in  his  wrinkled  face  that  recalled 
Don  Quixote;  but  a  Don  Quixote 
who  had  come  through  the  train- 
ing  of    the  Covenant,  and  been 

6i 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

nourished  in  his  youth  on  Walker^s 
Lives  and  The  Hind  let  Loose. 

Now,  as  I  could  not  bear  to  let 
such  a  man  pass  away  with  no 
sketch  preserved  of  his  old-fash- 
ioned virtues,  I  hope  the  reader 
will  take  this  as  an  excuse  for  the 
present  paper,  and  judge  as  kindly 
as  he  can  the  infirmities  of  my 
description.  To  me,  who  find  it 
so  difficult  to  tell  the  little  that  I 
know,  he  stands  essentially  as  a 
genius  loci.  It  is  impossible  to 
separate  his  spare  form  and  old 
straw  hat  from  the  garden  in  the 
lap  of  the  hill,  with  its  rocks  over- 
grown with  clematis,  its  shadowy 
walks,  and  the  splendid  breadth 
of  champaign  that  one  saw  from 
the  northwest  comer.  The  garden- 
and  gardener  seem  part  and  parcel 
of  each  other.  When  I  take  him 
from  his  right  surroundings  and 
try  to  make  him  appear  for  me  on 
paper,  he  looks  unreal  and  phan- 
tasmal: the  best  that  I  can  say 
may  convey  some  notion  to  those 

62 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

that  never  saw  him,  but  to  me  it 
will  be  ever  impotent. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  him,  I 
fancy  Robert  was  pretty  old 
already:  he  had  certainly  begun 
to  use  his  years  as  a  stalking 
horse.  Latterly  he  was  beyond 
all  the  impudencies  of  logic,  con- 
sidering a  reference  to  the  parish 
register  worth  all  the  reasons  in 
the  world,  "  /  am  old  and  well 
stricken  in  years"  he  was  wont  to 
say;  and  I  never  found  any  one 
bold  enough  to  answer  the  argu- 
ment. Apart  from  this  vantage 
that  he  kept  over  all  who  were 
not  yet  octogenarian,  he  had  some 
other  drawbacks  as  a  gardener. 
He  shrank  the  very  place  he  culti- 
vated. The  dignity  and  reduced 
gentility  of  his  appearance  made 
the  small  garden  cut  a  sorry  figure. 
He  was  full  of  tales  of  greater 
situations  in  his  younger  days. 
He  spoke  of  castles  and  parks 
with  a  humbling  familiarity.  He 
told   of  places   where   under  gar- 

63 


AN    OLD   SCOTCH   GARDENER 

deners  had  trembled  at  his  looks, 
where  there  were  meres  and  swan- 
neries, labyrinths  of  walk  and 
wildernesses  of  sad  shrubbery'  in 
his  control,  till  you  could  not  help 
feeling  that  it  was  condescension 
on  his  part  to  dress  your  humbler 
garden  plots.  You  were  thrown 
at  once  into  an  invidious  position. 
You  felt  that  you  were  profiting 
by  the  needs  of  dignity,  and  that 
his  poverty  and  not  his  will  con- 
sented to  your  vulgar  rule.  Invol- 
untarily you  compared  yourself 
with  the  swineherd  that  made 
Alfred  watch  his  cakes,  or  some 
bloated  citizen  who  may  have 
given  his  sons  and  his  condescen- 
sion to  the  fallen  Dionysius.  Nor 
were  the  disagreeables  purely  fan- 
ciful and  metaphysical,  for  the 
sway  that  he  exercised  over  your 
feelings  he  extended  to  your  gar- 
den, and,  through  the  garden,  to 
your  diet.  He  would  trim  a  hedge, 
throw  away  a  favourite  plant,  or 
fill  the  most  favoured  and  fertile 


64 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

section  of  the  garden  with  a  vege- 
table that  none  of  us  could  eat, 
in  supreme  contempt  for  our  opin- 
ion. If  you  asked  him  to  send 
you  in  one  of  your  o\N-n  artichokes, 
"  That  I  luull,  mem"  he  would 
say,  "  with  pleasure,  for  it  is  mair 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive" 
Ay,  and  even  when,  by  extra 
twisting  of  the  screw,  we  prevailed 
on  him  to  prefer  our  commands 
to  his  own  inclination,  and  he 
went  away,  stately  and  sad,  pro- 
fessing that  '■''our  wull  was  his 
pleasure^''  but  yet  reminding  us 
that  he  would  do  it  *'  with  fee  lift's" 
—  even  then,  I  say,  the  trium- 
phant master  felt  humbled  in  his 
triumph,  felt  that  he  ruled  on  suf- 
ferance only,  that  he  was  taking  a 
mean  advantage  of  the  other's 
low  estate,  and  that  the  whole 
scene  had  been  one  of  those 
"slights  that  patient  merit  of  the 
unworthy  takes." 

In   flowers   his   taste   was  old- 
fashioned  and  catholic;  affecting 

6S 


AN   OLD   SCOTCH   GARDENER 

sunflowers  and  dahlias,  wallflowers 
and  roses,  and  holding  in  supreme 
aversion  whatsoever  was  fantastic, 
new-fashioned  or  wild.  There 
was  one  exception  to  this  sweep- 
ing ban.  Foxgloves,  though  un- 
doubtedly guilty  on  the  last  count, 
he  not  only  spared,  but  loved; 
and  when  the  shrubbery  was  being 
thinned,  he  stayed  his  hand  and 
dexterously  manipulated  his  bill 
in  order  to  save  every  stately  stem. 
In  boyhood,  as  he  told  me  once, 
speaking  in  that  tone  that  only 
actors  and  the  old-fashioned  com- 
mon folk  can  use  nowadays,  his 
heart  grew  '■'•  proud'"  within  him 
when  he  came  on  a  bum-course 
among  the  braes  of  Manor  that 
shone  purple  with  their  graceful 
trophies;  and  not  all  his  appren- 
ticeship and  practice  for  so  many 
years  of  precise  gardening  had 
banished  these  boyish  recollec- 
tions from  his  heart.  Indeed,  he 
was  a  man  keenly  alive  to  the 
beauty    of   all    that    was   bygone. 

66 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

He  abounded  in  old  stories  of  his 
boyhood,  and  kept  pious  account 
of  all  his  former  pleasures;  and 
when  he  went  (on  a  holiday)  to 
visit  one  of  the  fabled  great 
places  of  the  earth  where  he  had 
served  before,  he  came  back  full 
of  little  pre-RaphaeUte  reminis- 
cences that  showed  real  passion 
for  the  past,  such  as  might  have 
shaken  hands  \\-ith  Hazlitt  or 
Jean-Jacques. 

But  however  his  sympathy  with 
his  old  feelings  might  affect  his 
liking  for  the  foxgloves,  the  very 
truth  was  that  he  scorned  all 
flowers  together.  They  were  but 
gamishings,  childish  toys,  trifling 
ornaments  for  ladies'  chimney- 
shelves.  It  was  towards  his  cauli- 
flowers and  peas  and  cabbage  that 
his  heart  grew  warm.  His  prefer- 
ence for  the  more  useful  growths 
was  such  that  cabbages  were 
found  invading  the  flower-plots, 
and  an  outpost  of  savoys  was  once 
discovered  in    the  centre    of    the 


67 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

lawn.  He  would  prelect  over 
some  thriving  plant  with  won- 
derful enthusiasm,  piling  reminis- 
cence on  reminiscence  of  former 
and  perhaps  yet  finer  specimens. 
Yet  even  then  he  did  not  let  the 
credit  leave  himself.  He  had, 
indeed,  raised  '•'■  finer  <?'  them;" 
but  it  seemed  that  no  one  else 
had  been  favoured  with  a  like 
success.  All  other  gardeners,  in 
fact,  were  mere  foils  to  his  own 
superior  attainments;  and  he 
would  recount,  with  perfect  sober- 
ness of  voice  and  visage,  how  so 
and  so  had  wondered,  and  such 
another  could  scarcely  give  credit 
to  his  eyes.  Nor  was  it  with  his 
rivals  only  that  he  parted  praise 
and  blame.  If  you  remarked  how 
well  a  plant  was  looking,  he  would 
gravely  touch  his  hat  and  thank 
you  with  solemn  unction ;  all 
credit  in  the  matter  falling  to  him. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  called 
his  attention  to  some  back -going 
vegetable,  he  would  quote  Scrip- 

68 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

ture  :  "  Paul  may  plant  and  Apol- 
los  may  water "  ;  all  blame  being 
left  to  Providence,  on  the  score 
of  deficient  rain  or  untimely 
frosts. 

There  was  one  thing  in  the  gar- 
den that  shared  his  preference 
with  his  favourite  cabbages  and 
rhubarb,  and  that  other  was  the 
bee-hive.  Their  sound,  their 
industry',  perhaps  their  sweet  prod- 
uct also,  had  taken  hold  of  his 
imagination  and  heart,  whether 
by  way  of  memory  or  no  I  cannot 
say,  although  perhaps  the  bees 
too  were  linked  to  him  by  some 
recollection  of  Manor  braes  and 
his  country  childhood.  Never- 
theless, he  was  too  chary  of  his 
personal  safety  or  (let  me  rather 
say)  his  personal  dignity  to  mingle 
in  any  active  office  towards  them. 
But  he  could  stand  by  while  one 
of  the  contemned  rivals  did  the 
work  for  him,  and  protest  that  it 
was  quite  safe  in  spite  of  his  own 
considerate  distance  and  the  cries 


69 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

of  the  distressed  assistant.  In 
regard  to  bees,  he  was  rather  a 
man  of  word  than  deed,  and  some 
of  his  most  striking  sentences  had 
the  bees  for  text.  "  They  are 
indeed  wonderfu'  creatures,  mem,''' 
he  said  once.  "  They  just  viind 
me  d'  what  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
said  to  Solomon  —  and  I  think  she 
said  it  wV  a  sigh,  — '  The  half  of 
it  hath  not  been  told  unto  me^  " 

As  far  as  the  Bible  goes,  he  was 
deeply  read.  Like  the  old  Cove- 
nanters, of  whom  he  was  the 
worthy  representative,  his  mouth 
was  full  of  sacred  quotations;  it 
was  the  book  that  he  had  studied 
most  and  thought  upon  most 
deeply.  To  many  people  in  his 
station  the  Bible,  and  perhaps 
Burns,  are  the  only  books  of  any 
vital  literary  merit  that  they  read, 
feeding  themselves,  for  the  rest, 
on  the  draff  of  country  newspa- 
pers, and  the  very  instructive  but 
not  very  palatable  pabulum  of 
some    cheap    educational    series. 


70 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

This  was  Robert's  position.  All 
day  long  he  had  dreamed  of  the 
Hebrew  stories,  and  his  head  had 
been  full  of  Hebrew  poetry  and 
Gospel  ethics;  until  they  had 
struck  deep  root  into  his  heart, 
and  the  very  expressions  had 
become  a  part  of  him;  so  that  he 
rarely  spoke  without  some  antique 
idiom  or  Scripture  mannerism  that 
gave  a  raciness  to  the  merest  triv- 
ialities of  talk.  But  the  influence 
of  the  Bible  did  not  stop  here. 
There  was  more  in  Robert  than 
quaint  phrase  and  ready  store  of 
reference.  He  was  imbued  with 
a  spirit  of  peace  and  love :  he 
interposed  between  man  and  wife : 
he  threw  himself  between  the 
angry,  touching  his  hat  the  while 
with  all  the  ceremony  of  an  usher: 
he  protected  the  birds  from  every- 
body but  himself,  seeing,  I  sup- 
pose, a  great  difference  between 
official  execution  and  wanton 
sport.  His  mistress  telling  him 
one   day  to   put   some  ferns  into 


71 


AN    OLD   SCOTCH   GARDENER 

his  master's  particular  comer,  and 
adding,  "  Though,  indeed,  Robert, 
he  doesn't  deser^^e  them,  for  he 
wouldn't  help  me  to  gather  them," 
'•'■  Eh,  mem"  replies  Robert,  '■'•but 
I  woiildnae  say  that,  for  I  think 
he's  Just  a  most  deservin'  gentle- 
manP  Again,  two  of  our  friends, 
who  were  on  intimate  terms,  and 
accustomed  to  use  language  to 
each  other,  somewtiat  without  the 
bounds  of  the  parliamentary',  hap- 
pened to  differ  about  the  position 
of  a  seat  in  the  garden.  The  dis- 
cussion, as  was  usual  when  these 
two  were  at  it,  soon  waxed  toler- 
ably insulting  on  both  sides. 
Every  one  accustomed  to  such 
controversies  several  times  a  day 
was  quietly  enjoying  this  prize- 
fight of  somewhat  abusive  wit  — 
every  one  but  Robert,  to  whom 
the  perfect  good  faith  of  the 
whole  quarrel  seemed  unques- 
tionable, and  who,  after  having 
waited  till  his  conscience  would 
suffer  him  to  wait  no  more,  and 


72 


AN    OLD   SCOTCH    GARDENER 

till  he  expected  every  moment 
that  the  disputants  would  fall  to 
blows,  cut  suddenly  in  with  tones 
of  almost  tearful  entreaty :  "  Eh, 
but,  gentlemen,  I  wad  hae  nae  mair 
words  about  it !  "  One  thing  was 
noticeable  about  Robert's  relig- 
ion :  it  was  neither  dogmatic  nor 
sectarian.  He  never  expatiated 
(at  least,  in  my  hearing)  on  the 
doctrines  of  his  creed,  and  he 
never  condemned  anybody  else. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  he  held  all 
Roman  Catholics,  Atheists,  and 
Mahometans  as  considerably  out 
of  it;  I  don't  believe  he  had  any 
sympathy  for  Prelacy;  and  the 
natural  feelings  of  man  must  have 
made  him  a  little  sore  about  Free- 
Churchism;  but  at  least,  he  never 
talked  about  these  views,  never 
grew  controversially  noisy,  and 
never  openly  aspersed  the  belief 
or  practice  of  anybody.  Now  all 
this  is  not  generally  characteristic 
of  Scotch  piety;  Scotch  sects 
being   churches    militant    with    a 


73 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

vengeance,  and  Scotch  believers 
perpetual  crusaders  the  one  against 
the  other,  and  missionaries  the  one 
to  the  other.  Perhaps  Robert's 
originally  tender  heart  was  what 
made  the  difference;  or,  perhaps, 
his  soUtary  and  pleasant  labour 
among  fruits  and  -  flowers  had 
taught  him  a  more  sunshiny  creed 
than  those  whose  work  is  among 
the  tares  of  fallen  humanity;  and 
the  soft  influences  of  the  garden 
had  entered  deep  into  his  spirit, 

"  Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 

But  I  could  go  on  for  ever 
chronicling  his  golden  sayings  or 
telling  of  his  innocent  and  Uving 
piety.  I  had  meant  to  tell  of  his 
cottage,  with  the  German  pipe, 
hung  reverently  above  the  fire, 
and  the  shell  box  that  he  had 
made  for  his  son,  and  of  which 
he  would  say  pathetically :  "  He 
was  real  pleased  wt'  it  at  first,  but 
I  think  he's  got  a  kind  c'  tired  d'  it 
now" — the  son  being  then  a  man 


74 


AN    OLD    SCOTCH    GARDENER 

of  about  forty.  But  I  will  let  all 
these  pass.  "  'Tis  more  signifi- 
cant: he's  dead."  The  earth,  that 
he  had  digged  so  much  in  his  life, 
was  dug  out  by  another  for  him- 
self; and  the  flowers  that  he  had 
tended  drew  their  life  still  from 
him,  but  in  a  new  and  nearer  way. 
A  bird  flew  about  the  open  grave, 
as  if  it  too  wished  to  honour  the 
obsequies  of  one  who  had  so  often 
quoted  Scripture  in  favour  of  its 
kind :  "Are  not  two  sparrows  sold 
for  one  farthing,  and  yet  not  one 
of  them  falleth  to  the  ground." 

Yes,  he  is  dead.  But  the  kings 
did  not  rise  in  the  place  of  death 
to  greet  him  "with  taunting  prov- 
erbs" as  they  rose  to  greet  the 
haughty  Babylonian;  for  in  his 
life  he  was  lowly,  and  a  peace- 
maker and  a  servant  of  God. 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN   AND 
TWOPENCE  COLOURED" 

'T^HESE  words  will  be  familiar 
i  to  all  students  of  Skelt's 
Juvenile  Drama.  That  national 
monument,  after  having  changed 
its  name  to  Park's,  to  Webb's,  to 
Redington's,  and  last  of  all  to 
Pollock's,  has  now  become,  for 
the  most  part,  a  memory.  Some 
of  its  pillars,  like  Stonehenge,  are 
still  afoot,  the  rest  clean  vanished. 
It  may  be  the  Museum  numbers  a 
full  set;  and  Mr.  lonides  perhaps, 
or  else  her  gracious  Majesty,  may 
boast  their  great  collections;  but 
to  the  plain  private  person  they 
are  become,  like  Raphaels,  unat- 
tainable. I  have,  at  different 
times,  possessed  Aladdin,  The 
Red  Rcrver,  The  Blind  Boy,  The 
Old  Oak  Chest,  The  Wood  Damon, 
Jack  Sheppard,  The  Miller  and 
his    Men,    Der    Freischiitz,     The 


77 


"A   PENNY    PLAIN" 

Smuggler,  The  Forest  of  Bondy^ 
Robm  Hood,  The  Waterman,  Rich- 
ard I.,  My  Poll  and  my  Partner 
Joe,  The  Inchcape  Bell  (imperfect), 
and  Three- Fingered  Jack,  the 
Terror  of  Jamaica ;  and  I  have 
assisted  others  in  the  illumination 
of  The  Maid  oj  the  Inn  and  The 
Battle  of  Waterloo.  In  this  roll- 
call  of  stirring  names  you  read 
the  evidences  of  a  happy  child- 
hood; and  though  not  half  of 
them  are  still  to  be  procured  of 
any  living  stationer,  in  the  mind 
of  their  once  happy  owner  all  sur- 
vive, kaleidoscopes  of  changing 
pictures,  echoes  of  the  past. 

There  stands,  I  fancy,  to  this 
day  (but  now  how  fallen  !)  a  certain 
stationer's  shop  at  a  comer  of  th.e 
wide  thoroughfare  that  joins  the 
city  of  my  childhood  with  the  sea. 
When,  upon  any  Saturday,  we 
made  a  party  to  behold  the  ships, 
we  passed  that  corner;  and  since 
in  those  days  I  loved  a  ship  as  a 
man  loves  Burgundy  or  daybreak, 

78 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN 

this  of  itself  had  been  enough  to 
hallow  it.  But  there  was  more 
than  that.  In  the  Leith  Walk 
window,  all  the  year  round,  there 
stood  displayed  a  theatre  in  work- 
ing order,  with  a  "forest  set,"  a 
"combat,"  and  a  few  "robbers 
carousing"  in  the  slides;  and 
below  and  about,  dearer  tenfold 
to  me  !  the  plays  themselves,  those 
budgets  of  romance,  lay  tumbled 
one  upon  another.  Long  and 
often  have  I  lingered  there  with 
empty  pockets.  One  figure,  we 
shall  say,  was  visible  in  the  first 
plate  of  characters,  bearded,  pistol 
in  hand,  or  drawing  to  his  ear  the 
clothyard  arrow;  I  would  spell 
the  name :  was  it  Macaire,  or  Long 
Tom  Coffin,  or  Grindoff,  2d  dress  ? 
O,  how  I  would  long  to  see  the 
rest  1  how  — if  the  name  by  chance 
were  hidden  —  I  would  wonder  in 
what  play  he  figured,  and  what 
immortal  legend  justified  his  atti- 
tude and  strange  apparel !  And 
then    to  go    within,  to    announce 


79 


"A   PENNY   plain" 

yourself  as  an  intending  purchaser, 
and,  closely  watched,  be  suffered 
to  undo  those  bundles  and  breath- 
lessly devour  those  pages  of  ges- 
ticulating villains,  epileptic  com- 
bats, bosky  forests,  palaces  and 
war-ships,  frowning  fortresses  and 
prison  vaults  —  it  was  a  giddy 
joy.  That  shop,  which  was  dark 
and  smelt  of  Bibles,  was  a  load- 
stone rock  for  all  that  bore  the 
name  of  boy.  They  could  not 
pass  it  by,  nor,  having  entered, 
leave  it.  It  was  a  place  besieged ; 
the  shopmen,  like  the  Jews  re- 
buDding  Salem,  had  a  double  task. 
They  kept  us  at  the  stick's  end, 
frowned  us  do\\m,  snatched  each 
play  out  of  our  hand  ere  we  were 
trusted  with  another;  and,  incred- 
itable  as  it  may  sound,  used  to 
demand  of  us  upon  our  entrance, 
like  banditti,  if  we  came  with 
money  or  with  empty  hand.  Old 
Mr.  Smith  himself,  worn  out  with 
my  eternal  vacillation,  once  swept 
the  treasures  from  before  me,  with 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN" 

the  cry :  "  I  do  not  believe,  child, 
that  you  are  an  intending  pur- 
chaser at  all !  "  These  were  the 
dragons  of  the  garden;  but  for 
such  joys  of  paradise  we  could 
have  faced  the  Terror  of  Jamaica 
himself.  Every  sheet  we  fingered 
was  another  lightning  glance  into 
obscure,  delicious  story;  it  was 
like  wallowing  in  the  raw  stuff  of 
stor)-books.  I  know  nothing  to 
compare  with  it  save  now  and 
then  in  dreams,  when  I  am  privi- 
leged to  read  in  certain  unwrit 
stories  of  adventure,  from  which 
I  awake  to  find  the  world  all 
vanity.  The  crux  of  Buridan's 
donkey  was  as  nothing  to  the 
uncertainty  of  the  boy  as  he  hand- 
led and  lingered  and  doated  on 
these  bundles  of  delight;  there 
was  a  physical  pleasure  in  the 
sight  and  touch  of  them  which 
he  would  jealously  prolong;  and 
when  at  length  the  deed  was  done, 
the  play  selected,  and  the  impa- 
tient  shopman   had  brushed  the 

8i 


"  A    PENNY    PLAIN  " 

rest  into  the  gray  portfolio,  and 
the  boy  was  forth  again,  a  little 
late  for  dinner,  the  lamps  spring- 
ing into  light  in  the  blue  winter's 
even,  and  The  Miller^  or  The 
Rover,  or  some  kindred  drama 
clutched  against  his  side  —  on 
what  gay  feet  he  ran,  and  how  he 
laughed  aloud  in  exultation  !  I 
can  hear  that  laughter  still.  Out 
of  all  the  years  of  my  life,  I  can 
recall  but  one  home-coming  to 
compare  with  these,  and  that  was 
on  the  night  when  I  brought 
back  with  me  the  Arabian  Enter- 
tainments  in  the  fat,  old,  double- 
columned  volume  with  the  prints. 
I  was  just  well  into  the  story 
of  the  Hunchback,  I  remember, 
when  my  clergyman-grandfath  ej 
(a  man  we  counted  pretty  stiff) 
came  in  behind  me.  I  grew  blind 
with  terror.  But  instead  of  order- 
ing the  book  away,  he  said  he 
envied  me.  Ah,  well  he  might ! 
The  purchase  and  the  first  half- 
hour  at  home,  that  was  the  sum- 


82 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN  " 

mit.  Thenceforth  the  interest 
declmed  by  little  and  little.  The 
fable,  as  set  forth  in  the  play- 
book,  proved  to  be  not  worthy  of 
the  scenes  and  characters:  what 
fable  would  not?  Such  passages 
as :  •'  Scene  6.  The  Hermitage. 
Night  set  scene.  Place  back  of 
scene  i,  No.  2,  at  back  of  stage 
and  hermitage.  Fig.  2,  out  of  set 
piece,  R.  H.  in  a  slanting  direc- 
tion "  —  such  passages,  I  say, 
though  very  practical,  are  hardly 
to  be  called  good  reading.  Indeed, 
as  literature,  these  dramas  did  not 
much  appeal  to  me.  I  forget  the 
very  outline  of  the  plots.  Of  The 
Blind  Boy,  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  most  injured  prince  and 
once,  I  think,  abducted,  I  know 
nothing.  And  The  Old  Oak  Chest, 
what  was  it  all  about  ?  that  pro- 
script  (ist  dress),  that  prodigious 
number  of  banditti,  that  old  woman 
with  the  broom,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent kitchen  in  the  third  act  (was 
it   in    the    third  ?)  —  they    are    all 

83 


"A    PENNY    plain" 

fallen  in  a  deliquium,  swim  faintly 
in  my  brain,  and  mix  and  vanish. 
I  cannot  deny  that  joy  attended 
the  illumination ;  nor  can  I  quite 
forgive  that  child  who,  wilfully 
foregoing  pleasure,  stoops  to 
"  twopence  coloured."  With  crim- 
son lake  (hark  to  the  sound  of  it 

—  crimson  lakel  —  the  horns  of 
elf -land  are  not  richer  on  the  ear ) 

—  with  crimson  lake  and  Prussian 
blue  a  certain  purple  is  to  be  com- 
pounded which,  for  cloaks  espec- 
ially, Titian  could  not  equal.  The 
latter  colour  with  gamboge,  a 
hated  name  although  an  exquisite 
pigment,  supplied  a  green  of  such 
a  savoury  greenness  that  to-day 
my  heart  regrets  it.  Nor  can  I 
recall  without  a  tender  weakness 
the  very  aspect  of  the  water 
where  I  dipped  my  brush.  Yes, 
there  was  pleasure  in  the  painting. 
But  when  all  was  painted,  it  is 
needless  to  deny  it,  all  was  spoiled. 
You  might,  indeed,  set  up  a  scene 
or  two  to  look  at;  but  to  cut  the 


84 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN  ' 

figures  out  was  simply  sacrilege  ; 
nor  could  any  child  twice  court 
the  tedium,  the  worry,  and  the 
long-drawn  disenchantment  of  an 
actual  performance.  Two  days 
after  the  purchase  the  honey  had 
been  sucked.  Parents  used  to 
complain ;  they  thought  I  wearied 
of  my  play.  It  was  not  so :  no 
more  than  a  person  can  be  said  to 
have  wearied  of  his  dinner  when 
he  leaves  the  bones  and  dishes ; 
I  had  got  the  marrow  of  it  and 
said  grace. 

Then  was  the  time  to  turn  to 
the  back  of  the  play-book  and  to 
study  that  enticing  double  file  of 
names,  where  poetry,  for  the  true 
child  of  Skelt,  reigned  happy  and 
glorious  like  her  Majesty  the 
Queen.  Much  as  I  have  travelled 
in  these  realms  of  gold,  I  have 
yet  seen,  upon  that  map  or  ab- 
stract, names  of  El  Dorados  that 
still  haunt  the  ear  of  memory,  and 
are  still  but  names.  The  Floating 
Beacon  —  why    was     that    denied 

S5 


"A    PENNY   PLAIN" 

me  ?  or  The  Wreck  Ashore  1  Six- 
teen-String  Jack,  whom  I  did  not 
even  guess  to  be  a  highwayman, 
troubled  me  awake  and  haunted 
my  slumbers;  and  there  is  one 
sequence  of  three  from  that 
enchanted  calendar  that  I  still 
at  times  recall,  like  a  loved  verse 
of  poetry:  Lodoiska,  Silver  Pal- 
ace, Echo  of  Westminster  Bridge. 
Names,  bare  names,  are  surely 
more  to  children  than  we  poor, 
grown-up,  obliterated  fools  re- 
member. 

The  name  of  Skelt  itself  has 
always  seemed  a  part  and  parcel 
of  the  charm  of  his  productions. 
It  may  be  different  with  the  rose, 
but  the  attraction  of  this  paper 
drama  sensibly  declined  when 
Webb  had  crept  into  the  rubric : 
a  poor  cuckoo,  flaunting  in  Skelt's 
nest.  And  now  we  have  reached 
Pollock,  sounding  deeper  gulfs. 
Indeed,  this  name  of  Skelt  appears 
so  stagey  and  piratic,  that  I  will 
adopt   it   boldly  to   design   these 

86 


"A    PENNY    plain" 

qualities.  Skeltery,  then,  is  a 
quality  of  much  art.  It  is  even 
to  be  found,  with  reverence  be  it 
said,  among  the  works  of  nature. 
The  stagey  is  its  generic  name ; 
but  it  is  an  old,  insular,  home-bred 
staginess;  not  French,  domesti- 
cally British;  not  of  to-day,  but 
smacking  of  O.  Smith,  Fitzball, 
and  the  great  age  of  melodrama : 
a  peculiar  fragrance  haunting  it; 
uttering  its  unimportant  message 
in  a  tone  of  voice  that  has  the 
charm  of  fresh  antiquity.  I  will 
not  insist  upon  the  art  of  Skelt's 
purveyors.  These  wonderful  char- 
acters that  once  so  thrilled  our 
soul  with  their  bold  attitude,  array 
of  deadly  engines  and  incompara- 
ble costume,  to-day  look  somewhat 
pallidly;  the  extreme  hard  favour 
of  the  heroine  strikes  me,  I  had 
almost  said  with  pain ;  the  villain's 
scowl  no  longer  thrills  me  like  a 
trumpet;  and  the  scenes  them- 
selves, those  once  unparalleled 
landscapes,  seem  the  efforts  of  a 

87 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN" 

prentice  hand.  So  much  of  fault 
we  find;  but  on  the  other  side  the 
impartial  critic  rejoices  to  remark 
the  presence  of  a  great  unity  of 
gusto;  of  those  direct  clap-trap 
appeals,  which  a  man  is  dead  and 
buriable  when  he  fails  to  answer; 
of  the  footlight  glamour,  the  ready- 
made,  bare-faced,  transpontine 
picturesque,  a  thing  not  one  with 
cold  reality,  but  how  much  dearer 
to  the  mind! 

The  scenery  of  Skeltdom  —  or, 
shall  we  say,  the  kingdom  of 
Transpontus?  —  had  a  prevailing 
character.  Whether  it  set  forth 
Poland  as  in  The  Blind  Boy,  or 
Bohemia  with  The  Miller  and  his 
Men,  or  Italy  with  The  Old  Oak 
Chest,  still  it  was  Transpontus, 
A  botanist  could  tell  it  by  the 
plants.  The  hollyhock  was  all 
pervasive,  running  wild  in  deserts ; 
the  dock  was  common,  and  the 
bending  reed ;  and  overshadowing 
these  were  poplar,  palm,  potato 
tree,  and  Quercus  Skeltica  —  brave 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN  " 

growths.  The  caves  were  all 
embowelled  in  the  Surreyside  for- 
mation ;  the  soil  was  all  betrodden 
by  the  light  pump  of  T.  P.  Cooke. 
Skelt,  to  be  sure,  had  yet  another, 
an  oriental  string:  he  held  the 
gorgeous  east  in  fee;  and  in  the 
new  quarter  of  Hyeres,  say,  in  the 
garden  of  the  Hotel  des  lies  d'Or, 
you  may  behold  these  blessed 
visions  realised.  But  on  these  I 
will  not  dwell;  they  were  an  out- 
work; it  was  in  the  occidental 
scenery  that  Skelt  was  all  himself. 
It  had  a  strong  flavour  of  Eng- 
land; it  was  a  sort  of  indigestion 
of  England  and  drop-scenes,  and 
I  am  bound  to  say  was  charming. 
How  the  roads  wander,  how  the 
castle  sits  upon  the  hill,  how  the 
sun  eradiates  from  behind  the 
cloud,  and  how  the  congregated 
clouds  themselves  uproU,  as  stiff 
as  bolsters!  Here  is  the  cottage 
interior,  the  usual  first  flat,  vnth 
the  cloak  upon  the  nail,  the  rosa- 
ries of  onions,  the  gun  and  powder- 

89 


"  A    PENNY    PLAIN  " 

horn  and  comer-cupboard ;  here  is 
the  inn  (this  drama  must  be  nauti- 
cal, I  foresee  Captain  Luff  and 
Bold  Bob  Bowsprit)  with  the  red 
curtain,  pipes,  spittoons,  and  eight- 
day  clock ;  and  there  again  is  that 
impressive  dungeon  with  the 
chains,  which  was  so  dull  to 
colour.  England,  the  hedgerow 
elms,  the  thin  brick  houses,  wind- 
mills, glimpses  of  the  navigable 
Thames  —  England,  when  at  last 
I  came  to  visit  it,  was  only  Skelt 
made  evident :  to  cross  the  border 
was,  for  the  Scotsman,  to  come 
home  to  Skelt;  there  was  the  inn- 
sign  and  there  the  horse-trough, 
all  foreshadowed  in  the  faithful 
Skelt.  If,  at  the  ripe  age  of  four- 
teen years,  I  bought  a  certain, 
cudgel,  got  a  friend  to  load  it, 
and  thenceforward  walked  the 
tame  ways  of  the  earth  my  own 
ideal,  radiating  pure  romance  — 
still  I  was  but  a  puppet  in  the 
hand  of  Skelt;  the  original  of 
that  regretted  bludgeon,  and  surely 

90 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN" 

the  antitype  of  all  the  bludgeon 
kind,  greatly  improved  from  Cruik- 
shank,  had  adorned  the  hand  of 
Jonathan  Wild,  pi.  i.  "This  is 
mastering  me,"  as  Whitman  cries, 
upon  some  lesser  provocation. 
What  am  I  ?  what  are  life,  art, 
letters,  the  world,  but  what  my 
Skelthasmadethem  ?  He  stamped 
himself  upon  my  immaturity.  The 
world  was  plain  before  I  knew 
him,  a  poor  penny  world ;  but  soon 
it  was  all  coloured  with  romance. 
If  I  go  to  the  theatre  to  see  a 
good  old  melodrama,  'tis  but  Skelt 
a  little  faded.  If  I  visit  a  bold 
scene  in  nature,  Skelt  would  have 
been  bolder;  there  had  been  cer- 
tainly a  castle  on  that  mountain, 
and  the  hollow  tree  —  that  set 
piece  —  I  seem  to  miss  it  in  the 
foreground.  Indeed,  out  of  this 
cut-and-dry,  dull,  swaggering,  ob- 
trusive and  infantile  art,  I  seem 
to  have  learned  the  very  spirit  of 
my  life's  enjoyment;  met  there 
the   shadows  of  the  characters  I 


"A    PENNY    plain" 

was  to  read  about  and  love  in  a 
late  future ;  got  the  romance  of 
Der  Freischiitz  long  ere  I  was  to 
hear  of  Weber  or  the  mighty 
Formes;  acquired  a  gallery  of 
scenes  and  characters  with  which, 
in  the  silent  theatre  of  the  brain, 
I  might  enact  all  novels  and 
romances;  and  took  from  these 
rude  cuts  an  enduring  and  trans- 
forming pleasure.  Reader  —  and 
yourself  ? 

A  word  of  moral :  it  appears 
that  B.  Pollock,  late  J.  Redington, 
No.  73  Hoxton  Street,  not  only 
publishes  twenty-three  of  these 
old  stage  favourites,  but  owns  the 
necessary  plates  and  displays  a 
modest  readiness  to  issue  other 
thirty-three.  If  you  love  art,  folly, 
or  the  bright  eyes  of  children, 
speed  to  Pollock's,  or  to  Clarke's 
of  Garrick  Street.  In  Pollock's 
list  of  publicanda  I  perceive  a 
pair  of  my  ancient  aspirations: 
Wreck  Ashore  and  Sixteen- Stri7ig 
Jack;    and    I   cherish    the    belief 


92 


"A    PENNY    PLAIN  " 

that  when  these  shall  see  once 
more  the  light  of  day,  B.  Pollock 
will  remember  this  apologist.  But, 
indeed,  I  have  a  dream  at  times 
that  is  not  all  a  dream.  I  seem  to 
myself  to  wander  in  a  ghostly 
street— E.  W.,  I  think,  the  postal 
district  —  close  below  the  fool's- 
cap  of  St.  I^aul's,  and  yet  within 
easy  hearing  of  the  echo  of  the 
Abbey  bridge.  There  in  a  dim 
shop,  low  in  the  roof  and  smelling 
strong  of  glue  and  foot-lights,  I 
find  myself  in  quaking  treaty  with 
great  Skelt  himself,  the  aboriginal, 
all  dusty  from  the  tomb.  I  buy, 
with  what  a  choking  heart  —  I 
buy  them  all,  all  but  the  panto- 
mimes; I  pay  my  mental  money, 
and  go  forth  ;  and  lo  !  the  packets 
are  dust. 


«^5^^?& 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


B     000  010  411     7 


